Taming of the Mad Dog
by athenares
Summary: "She almost saw him through the shock in his glacier eyes: a broken boy, this bastard of Bolton, broken and taped together but the cracks still screaming and colored." The more the wolf salts his wounds, the more his obsession grows on her. Set in a struggle of secrets, lust, control, and escape. Ramsay/Sansa
1. PRELUDE

"I don't believe in Magic,"

the young boy said.

The old man smiled,

"You will, when you see her."

- _Atticus_

* * *

Here lies an alternate story of Sansa Stark and Ramsay Bolton from multiple perspectives.

Patterned on Game of Thrones season 5.

From the belief of the author that

"Only true love can thaw a _winter_ heart."

* * *

To J.

To whom my childhood will _always_ be with.


	2. 1 ROOSE

_Do not show me how to restrain myself,_

 _you evil, innocent temptress._

 _~MTC, 62216_

* * *

ROOSE Bolton eyed her. This material of beauty which is Sansa Stark.

The day was untreated with light, and when was it ever not? _Winter has come_. Weeny snowflakes trickled, melting on their hair, settling on their shoulders. Skies were dull and grievous. Daytime was only a line away from night, and yet made everything seem sleepless. He himself was sleepless, given by the added crumples on the edges of his light grey eyes, and the much darker shade beneath them. His face, hard from skin to beard to thin whiting hair, met her with critical interest.

He heard stories of this Stark girl: how she was, once upon a time, engaged to the late Joffrey Baratheon, casted aside to be wed to the Lannister imp, and conspired to poison the boy king on his wedding day. She was said to have transformed into a she-wolf and ran off, leaving her dwarf husband to the inquest and judgement. She was said to be a witch, a devil's bride, the Stranger's lover. She was rumoured to keeping her father's severed head, and every night creeps out with it and with seven dim candles under the Godswood, witnesses hear Ned's voice draw from his purpling lifeless lips, feeding her venomous thoughts of bringing his death into justice. She had become a girl of many stories, but stories are for the gullible, and he wasn't about to digest stupid peasant lies.

She is, he confesses, such a sweet sight. In the crisp chilly air, he can feel her warmth pulsate. Among the Winterfell walls, she looks like summer, she is a ray of sunshine. For a girl in her middle teens, Sansa Stark resembles more of a grown woman: her eyes were inquisitive, her skin cut from pearls, her chest a pleasant convex, her figure eye-catching even when covered with leatherette travelling gown. He found his young self nursing a little desire for this budding rose, which, of course, is impossible as he is married to fat Walda Frey, and this budding rose is to be wed to his bastard.

A tense exhale emanated beside him. He angled his head, sure to face a despaired, angry son whose head was bowed. The boy is particularly unhappy of this arrangement, Roose sensed, when was the bastard ever happy aside from peeling people alive?

The last of the Vale men entered the castle gates, gallops of their horses ceasing, neighs quieted by stable men and knights alike. More men drew in, more of their thin foggy breaths blurring the view of the main guests.

Roose walked in the same bleak steps he was recognized, having neither propensity nor grace to smile. His eyes, dull and sombre as they were, searched the Stark girl. He recognized she wasn't wearing a hood, that the black on her head wasn't any cloth, but the braids of her hair instead. There started a doubt in his mind if he was fooled by the Littlefinger, for he heard that Sansa Stark was a rebirth of a Tully: red hair and blue eyes. She was supposed to have autumn hair, and he was looking at a girl with night shade locks.

Petyr Baelish appeared beside Sansa, his gloved hand on her back, guiding her towards Bolton. Roose had always seen the Littlefinger as a sly, roguish cunt. He had liking on questioning Littlefinger's every stroke. Nevertheless he was the only cunt he could trust to bring the girl alive. Despite the uncertainty of Sansa and her dark hair, Roose drew breath and decided to welcome them instead.

"Lady Sansa," he went on, "welcome."

His voice was crude. He felt her shy away in hesitation, playing with her pinkish-tipped fingers to keep them warm. But she looked at him with which he perceives as venom in those blue eyes, labelling him. Why wouldn't she? This man has turned on her kin, voluntarily engaged in butchering them at the Red Wedding. He half expected she would grow fangs and dig them onto his neck.

Suddenly her face changed, as if by spell, and smiled. Reaching out to her skirt and bending her right knee, she curtsied, "Lord Bolton."

It lifted the mood, and Roose loosed his curled fist, let out himself a crooked half-smile. He stepped aside to make way, "May I introduce my son, Ramsay Bolton."

In the midst of the sky starting to break light, he waited for Ramsay to immediately knock past him and take the girl by the face to kiss her. Roose has always noted the boy's unquenchable hunger for women, and with the Stark girl far more desirable than the low born whores he fed and fucked, there is no reason to keep his hands to himself.

Yet, he saw a strange revolt in Ramsay's face. It was pale, as if hit by blizzard. His lips were agape as if devoid of words. And his eyes were new to take sight of. The blue in them was suddenly drained, turning them into almost grey pools which no words nor painting can match. Roose has never seen his bastard this aghast, and it was unusual. Is Ramsay's taste in women this bizarre, Roose thought, to disapprove of the likes of Sansa Stark and be satisfied with prole bitches in brothels?

Ramsay looked at him briefly with eyes in quandary, as if he was called to be whipped in the naked bottom. It was more than a decade ago when he was last punished over a deed Roose couldn't remember, and this time he sees that boy again. Afraid. Hysterical. Haunted.

Roose had to furrow brows to remind Ramsay of his supposed act, and the boy seemed to grasp the point.

He watched his son move forward, releasing his right hand from the glove that engulfed it, and stretched it out to Sansa Stark. Roose noted the slight vigor that went back to Ramsay's face at the touch of her skin.

"It's an honor to meet you," Ramsay managed his low, steady voice, "my lady." He met his lips on the back of her hand.

 _Childish_. Roose found himself scoffing. Ramsay has _always_ been childish. His erratic ways of redemption wasn't all the time favorable. Roose would sometimes look at Ramsay, the boy ignited with mood swings and untamed craving for hunt, and shake his head trying to decipher how he had managed to father this whelp. He had minimal liking on the way Ramsay would treat captives of looting. Skinless carcass was one of the last things Roose would want to see, despite it being their banner, and Ramsay has always gifted him with those. Once he branded his son a lunatic, and twice he attempted to put him in chains for feeding babes to his wild, devil dogs, and more than thrice he wanted to bring back the Snow in the bastard's last name instead of his own. It wasn't a surprise to him anymore on questioning why he ever naturalized the boy in the first place. It seemed that turning him into a Bolton has made him lose half his brain. If not for the need to make pact with house Arryn, he would have just let Ramsay live a bachelor. He would never deserve a lady for a wife.

Now he looked at Sansa, sweet and sinless, and _virgin._ He could imagine the joy of his son, insane to taste her blood on their wedding night. He would want to see the last picture of her smiling, for he knew he will never see her that way again.

* * *

He made sure Sansa Stark will be treated well, a notion truly awkward given that he once drove a dagger through her brother's heart. Will this be a kind of atonement to his guilt, he wasn't ready to accept. The least he can do is have the best of comfort for the Stark girl before handing her to Ramsay.

Roose walked through the narrow staircase leading to the mezzanine, a note in his hand and apprehension in his face. _Dark wings, dark words._ He knew. The raven received was from King's Landing, hand written by Queen Cersei herself, addressed to Petyr Baelish. Without second thoughts he broke the queen's seal before handing the parchment to Littlefinger.

He did find Petyr in the balcony, and with Ramsay. Their dirtied, hooded capes faced him, unknown of his presence. Both were looking down, with Ramsay's fingers around the surface of the wooden railings. Roose craned his neck to see the view his son and Littlefinger were paying attention to. There was nothing special there at first, with only men pulling wagons here and there, a host of lumber, bricks, crops, venison. Men hammering and drilling and putting up rafters. And then he sighted Sansa Stark passing, her white face very evident against the dull. Her cape flowing as to her comely movements. Her splendidness undeserving of the mess he made of Winterfell.

"She is so lovely..."

Roose Bolton immersed on Ramsay's words and felt no shame in eavesdropping. Again there was the tinge of melancholia in his voice. It was obscure for Ramsay to have such murkiness, having been known for his maniac, violent stature. This was new. Very, very new to have seen and heard the boy speak this way. Roose would have described him anxious, glum, and... _sad_.

Ramsay broke in a slow exhale, his face an alloy of contrasting want and restraint, eyes still down to the void where Sansa Stark once stood. He finished his sentence.

"...do I even deserve her?"


	3. 2 SANSA

True nostalgia is an ephemeral composition of

disjointed memories.

 _~Florence King_

* * *

LORD Baelish lied. This is not home, not even close. He told her she'd be home and he lied. Home meant warmth. Home meant peace and laughter and lemon cakes. Home meant Robb and lord father sparring on the courtyard. Home meant arguing with Arya who doesn't want to brush her nest of a hair. Arya who wasn't at all pretty. Arya Horseface, they used to call her, her and her best friend Jeyne. Home meant playing tag with Bran and baby Rickon, where the unfortunate loser will have to steal a sweet or two from the kitchens (she used to wish Bran was the girl instead of Arya). Home was where mother used to brush, oil, and braid her hair in front of the fireplace. Home was where Maester Luwin walks slowly on the staircases with his puffy sleeves which seemed to her like a magic pouch. He used to pull out everything from those sleeves: parchment, medicine, feather pen. Home is where Old Nan was sitting on the edge of her bed when she was fevered, telling her the stories she loved most: knights and ladies, prince and princesses, and being swept off her feet. Home is where Hodor breaks the ground as he stamps. And Home is also Jon Snow, kin to half her blood. Pretty ebony hair. Always sulking during meals. Always an outsider, poor thing.

All of those. Nothing. Nothing here resembles home. Not even the bricks on the walls, once grey and glittering, now varnished in soot and dried piss and horse shit. Home smelled of incense and lamb chops, not the violent stink of vomit and disgusting men.

Sansa wiped the edge of her eye, sniffled, and lowered her head. There is no point in lingering in what home once was, she had to wax and seal that on her mind. No more sewing pretty dresses. No more lemon cakes. No more braiding and babbling excitement on marrying a prince or a knight of a great house.

She moved on, slow and sure, along the narrowing path that led to the godswood. Or maybe not anymore. Nevertheless she wanted to move away from the nauseatic stares the men were pinning on her, all strangers, all distasteful. Men whose chapped lips and yellowed teeth were shown in smiles at the sight of her, making her insides revolt, her mind floating back to the riot in King's Landing where the people tore the High Septon's limbs to pieces, and she was nearly—

She cursed herself of the obscurity and tightened her dark robe. The snow ceased descending and luck had made minute sunshine across the clouds. She had to relish this part of the day, when it was warm, for this was rare and lasted for only about a meal's time. _Almost there._ Her heart started thrumming with the nearing edge of the path.

Finally she stepped out in the open. The forest where _their_ gloomy castle grew around set her chest to overwhelming flutters. It probably was the part of Winterfell least ruined.

Once upon a time she resented this place for resembling the forsaken kingdoms in Old Nan's stories. But that was before she lived in a hell named King's Landing and met the monsters in the form of Joffrey (Seven bless his soul not), and Cersei and those rapists she often nightmares about. Now it felt like haven, despite the smell of moist earth and decay. She never went here unless she was with father or Robb and Jon, or Hodor and her little brothers.

Few of the sentinel trees still stood with branches intact, the leaves that abandoned them carpeted the ground, making crisp dry noises at the touch of the wind. From the naked branches to the thick black trunks that crowded close together, down to the misshappen roots wrestling on the soil, Sansa has never seen something beautiful since the dress she wore on their ride to King's Landing. This was a place of deafening silence. Where the world seemed to have befallen under the Stranger's clasp. Where lord father usually tucks himself in meditation.

"It's a pretty sight, isn't it?"

Sansa turned her head, finding a thin, pale girl, about her age or younger, leaning on the wall near the entrance to the forest. She had chocolate hair that rippled down to the waist, had a small childish face, lovely in some sort of way, but spying. She wore dark leather, giving the impression she wasn't in any way a Lady.

Sansa made no reply, trying to gauge who this she-stranger is. She first thought this was Jeyne, but lacked manners.

"Must've been more beautiful some time ago," the girl spoke again.

"It wasn't." Sansa heard herself, and didn't stop. She looked at the forest twice, "for me, at least. But things change when you see worse. And you go back to what you once thought was ugly, and find them the most beautiful thing after all."

The girl breathed out what was supposed to be laughter, and Sansa wasn't impressed. She finds it unpleasing for someone to discover her in her solitude, at least before her wedding night.

"Or maybe it still is ugly," said the girl, "only now you think it's beautiful because you still haven't seen the _worst_."

Sansa faced her, head inclined, fingers clasped. "I—I'm sorry. I must have missed your name..."

The girl's face flushed, with a quick smile, she looked down, "I'm Myranda. I'm...the kennel master's daughter."

Sansa does not remember their kennel master having children, much less a daughter. Myranda seemed to sense her query.

"I came with..." Myranda waved her arms slowly with a twist of her body. Sansa, finally hitting her point, opened her mouth in enlightenment but kept her voice to herself. She nodded instead.

Silence fell but Sansa can feel the thick tension in how this Myranda sees her. And she does not like it. Her eyes, cold emerald, were masked with a smile but something inside chilled her. Sansa swore she saw the tightening in Myranda's jaw. Hatred. Loathing. Jealousy? The Stark girl found herself swallowing.

Myranda clicked her tongue, breaking the pause. "Well then I should...get going." She slowly turned her back towards the red head and stopped, her hand on the surface of the bricks near her exit. "Oh I almost forgot."

Sansa waited. She perceived the hesitations, as if Myranda never actually meant to say the final message. Instead, they locked eyes the last time, with Myranda's coy and suppressed smile. "You're so beautiful...my Lady."

Sansa has nothing to do but watch as Myranda paraded her back which continually diminished as she left the place, but she heard how the kennel girl's fingernails scraped the brick her hand rested on.

Without second thoughts, she pushed this Myranda aside. She had no interest in making friends anymore, not especially with this girl taking side with the aliens in her home. The same aliens she was about to call her family in this political wedding.

Gaining back her solitude felt like victory. She paced forward to the tree everyone in Winterfell was familiar to. And there it was, still fat and short and dominating. Its trunk was still white, striped with grey or blue, its leaves a canopy of fire, and its facade carved with the all-knowing (and sad) face of a god she didn't even know the name. Its leaves were still enough to make a shade, the red in its leaves almost the only color screaming in the place. A few yards from the godswood she stopped and conceived the figure of father, his back on her, wiping his Valyrian sword Ice. This image sent her lips trembling, an excess of her sadness spilled on the edges of her eyes again. She closed them to let the tears streak on. Tears were no longer a stranger to her, she should be well familiar with them.

She opened her eyes to see no more of father's back, his broad shoulders, and Ice.

Sansa moved to the tree, to the spot where father used to tuck himself. The pond loomed in front of her in an almost dark and daring crystal. Ripples played on its surface and it smelled of moss. Beside the pond was the huge rock almost as high as the godswood itself. They made sport of this pond, she acknowledged, she and Arya and her two little brothers. Robb and Jon once swam with them, usually jumping from the rock to land heavier towards the bottom of the pond. They would race to dive and grab a handful of mud from the pond bottom to prove they've reached its limit. But both withdrew when they started growing their facial hairs, when father started taking them to hunts or beheadings. She could almost see Bran's wondering eye whenever she and Arya stripped, probably looking for the thing which was supposed to hang between their legs. She could almost hear baby Rickon's cry when chased with splashes.

Her fingers touched the water and made more ripples that continued to nowhere. Perhaps ripples were like fame, or beauty, or power. The moment it grows, then it's gone.

The touch of it, though, was delish. Like the old days, she started stripping herself off the black cape that was supposed to protect her from hungry eyes. The cape crumpled on the hard fat roots of the wood. Her bare and slightly freckled arms kissed the cold and tolerated it too. She pulled her boots off and fed her feet on the water, her toes wiping the moss off the stones. It almost made her gasp, and slowly she reached the hem of her dark dress and dipped her feet further and deeper. When the water reached up to her upper thighs she pulled her dress off her body, her breasts making a soft bounce as the cloth freed them. She threw the garments, smallclothes and dress together, to rest beside the cape.

The water was exhilarating. Being engulfed in it made Sansa Stark invincible of the memories that have been haunting her since she entered the gates. Her body, pearly white against the water, absorbed a strength that she has never tasted since her first breath. She slowly stretched her arms, as if giving herself in surrender, and looked up to the sky, eyes half-opened, lips slightly parted, her hair a halo around her head. She was an eagle above clouds. She was a dragon casting shadow on the plains.

If this lake were a man, she was glad to have made love with it. The thought plastered a quiet vibration under her skin. _Was she ready for this?_

They said it was pleasurable. Too pleasurable that men would pay for it, for the lumps of flesh on a woman's chest and the "pit" between her thighs. She has never explored her own body. She has begun to curse it when Joffrey Baratheon kicked her aside for Margaery. People said she was beautiful and bright; she was like her aunt Lyanna. But if she were beautiful, she wouldn't have been casted aside. And how in seven hells would she know about a dead aunt her father would not talk even about.

Her face began to immerse underwater. Her consciousness started to falter when the water felt like hands on her skin, swaying her into a lullaby. Getting married in a few days has become familiar to her. On the first night after Lord Baelish told her the pact, she wept quietly. She wept for her family and for Winterfell. Mother used to tell her that a Lady's duty is to her house. And she is about to betray her house. And no matter how Lord Baelish convinces her that her marriage will not be betrayal, but rather, a plot to overpower the usurpers, she still has made a whore of herself.

She recalled the man, Ramsay Bolton, aged perhaps one and twenty, or more. His face is not princely, she observed, but he has the built of a man she once imagined to embrace, back when she was a stupid girl with stupid dreams about loving and being loved in return. This man has bluish eyes as if they reflected hers, and his furtive look was suspicious, like fire trying to be extinguished but hardly. At first she thought he was a plain chap, the bastard of Bolton. He looked innocent and gentle, but she wasn't about to be fooled again with a parallelism of gold to virtue. And she remembered how, the moment his hand touched hers, her demons screamed. She shivered. But not with the cold.

Her eyes remained steady, the view rippled by water and a few strands of floating red hair.

 _Ramsay Bolton. Ramsay._

The name irked her, sending her spine weak. She could almost see him looming above her, his silhouette standing on the edge of the rock where her brothers used to dive from. It looked like a shadow against the white of cloudy sky, steady as her deepening slumber: his curly mess of hair, the leather straps on his body, his drunkening gaze. It seemed too concrete. Her brows started to furrow in awe of how she could imagine him to be so real.

And then his head slowly inclined. Antagonizing. Eyes boring through her.

 _RAMSAY!_

Sansa spewed out of the water like lightning, creating a noise of a giant fish being pulled out its home. Her head quickly searched in panic, turning to every corner of the forsaken place, and realized she was near the edge of the pond. Nothing. There was nothing and no one. The rock was empty. The girl was as alone as she was when she came, yet there was a sudden blaze of chill on her nerves.

She can hear herself breathing and see the steam crawling out of her skin. The ice in the air stung and she covered her chest as she walked to her clothes. The security she felt when she came and stripped has melted. She felt eyes boring from unseen portals in the place. And then she sighted the face carved on the godswood. Its steady, lifeless eyes seemed to live, seemed to follow her where she goes. But the eyes didn't feel as if it came from the godswood, it was from something else. Quickly she put on her covers, not even minding if her ribbons were loose or have been tied to the right pairs.

Sansa Stark fled the place, her hair dripping, leaving a dark round map on the back of her cape. Horror has clung to her heels and when she left, she never looked back, for perhaps Myranda was right: this place was still ugly. It was never beautiful.

She started to fear for the worst.

* * *

Gratitude to your reviews.

I am truly pleased to have read your encouragements.

~ _Athenares_


	4. 3 MYRANDA

_The lovesick, the betrayed, and the jealous all smell alike. (SDC)_

* * *

THE door creaked and there he was, silent as the shadow he is. Myranda inhaled the scent of brick and wood, and spiced wine. Ramsay had this obsession on wine as thick as his obsession on sex, but right now he didn't smell as if he was itching to rectify the need, but Myranda always knew how to set him in the mood. She knew where to touch, and knew what to say. She knew the paces of his desire and the levels he wanted. She was his favorite bitch, one reason she knew why she was still breathing unlike all the other whores he played his mouth on.

She took him all in: sitting, his back facing her, his facade towards the window. He was lax and grim together, with head resting on the knuckles of his folded arm, elbow on the side of the chair. To her he looked as if he was carved on that post, inanimate and sullen for a long time. Long enough to have the parchments on the table be blown in all directions by the wind breathing through the same window, long enough to have the candle be cold and stiff and lifeless.

Myranda picked a parchment, its seal already broken. And as much as she wanted to read what those figures meant, she couldn't. She wasn't a lady taught by a septa on how to read and play with ink. Slowly she walked towards the table to rest the parchment on. She made sure her footsteps were audible.

"And here you are," she heard herself say with a voice adopted by confidence. She was recognized when Ramsay's head turned to the side, parting his head from his knuckles. She saw him stretch his legs and rest both his arms on the sides of the chair with a sloth exhale. But he never looked at her, and her interest piqued.

Myranda moved to the window, purposely blocking his view, and looked outside to catch what keeps him dull. There was nothing there. No bare teats, no flayed bodies, no mating beasts. Only ugly hills browned by the melting snow that once blanketed them.

She pulled the covers together, darkening the room, and faced him with a quick sway of her dark skirt. She managed to pull the edges of her lips into a smile but her eyes were repulsive, the emerald in them glowed. Ramsay was caught still looking at the window as if he could see through the old wooden panes. Finally his lips twitched and he looked at her sullenly like a child stolen of toys. Myranda usually sees that look from him whenever Lord Roose commands an idea he didn't want to do.

"Is it the marriage?" she spoke, hoping he would say yes, hoping he says it was bothersome. Ramsay's lips parted but were empty of words. He cleared his throat after raising both brows. It lightened her mood. She closed the space between them and lifted her skirt to rest her buttocks on his lap, making sure it rubs on his cock. A smiled flashed on her face when his body stiffened, she could hear his suppressed breathing. This man is easily pleased, for a start, she thought. Many women can easily make him hard, but start whimpering when he peaks the excitement.

Her right arm snaked around his neck, slightly pulling herself up to narrow the space between their faces.

"We could hunt, you know," she cooed, fingers from her free hand tracing a path from the stubble on his chin to his Adam's apple. She felt it bob up and down. "Just like days at the Fort. Send the girls snapping after. She will be an easy target, with that bright hair."

She loved watching him watch her lips when it moves with every word she spoke, as what he is doing now. His warmth penetrated the layers of leather between them, and she decided they didn't need their clothes.

Myranda pressed her lips against his, boring for the start, something to make him crave for more. He usually liked this, having her calm at first to allow his animalistic instincts take over. He loved his women submissive, but tough enough to endure his grips and beatings, and fingerscrapes. Ramsay responded, flicking his tongue in and biting her lip. She felt his fingers on the back of her hair to push her head forward. She parted their lips to move hers on his jaw, to the muscle on his neck, to his collar bone. Her hands rested on his chest, and made her breathing sound desperate. She moved to part her legs and wrapped them around his waist, making sure she puts more weight on the hardening on his groin.

When her fingers rummaged on the buckles of his breeches, there she was stopped. Ramsay's hand made a grip on her wrist. Her eyes opened, interrogated at the apex. Her face, a bit messed with strands of hair, met his with disturbing interest.

No color could have painted her emotion, as to this was rare. She was never stopped, especially when her hands were on the right places. Ramsay gave her a calm look, eyes almost half-opened, face firm. Slowly he lifted her wrist to emphasize his point.

"Are you sick?" Myranda asked. He let her wrist free and held her look for a while. With a steady voice, he said his first word ever since she came.

"Go."

The realm fell on her, she felt. Myranda's face crumpled as she searched for the truth on his lips. For sure she misheard him. "I just got here."

Ramsay shrugged his shoulders without looking at her. He lifted his hands with a careless impression, as if he has just stepped on her. This time their eyes met: hers with an angry vexation and his with apathy.

"Well yes." His voice began coyly. "And now you can go."

"You can't be serious."

He rolled his eyes and sighed. _Typical Ramsay_. Myranda thought. She knew that look and she always waited for it when he says one of his women were boring. Envy began to spread on her veins, envy and insecurity. Ramsay raised his hip, giving the signal for her to make way so he could stand. She, with all nimbus clouds gathering on her head, meekly obeyed and helplessly witnessed him free himself from her legs and pace away.

Myranda stiffly planted herself on the same chair which Ramsay has abandoned. He once fucked her there, she recalled, with her hands gripping on the armrests as he took her from behind. She could name all the places where they screwed around. Now she stared blankly at the rejection that taunted her. This was not her Ramsay, and she would not leave without revealing what turned his horses around.

"Where were you?" she asked demurely. She could hear him lifting the tin pitcher and filling his goblet.

He took a gulp without turning face to her. "Sparring."

"I saw you staring at her," she blurted, jealousy dripping from her lips. She was too familiar with that loathing.

Ramsay's eyes looked up to the ceiling with his tongue bitten between his teeth, and exhaled. "I'm going to _marry_ her. That involves looking at her from time to time." She can finally taste annoyance from his throat.

She paused for a while and made herself comfortable on the chair, crossing her legs and nibbling on the finger of her thumb. Ramsay continued his drinking spree, filling his cup and downing more.

"You think she's pretty?" Myranda looked at him in wait. It was a question she almost always asked whenever Ramsay would set eyes on a woman she brands as a whore. She hated pretty girls. She hated Kyra, and Violet, and Tansy. No matter how approved she seemed when they shared Ramsay's bed, she abhorred their grown bodies, their blonde hair, bigger teats and wider hips. He always made her feel she was still too young and how she wanted to have grown more for him to feast on. But right now her rival was even younger than her, perhaps two or three years and probably have just flowered, but she is everything Myranda detested, most especially her blue blood. Most likely she shared a common caste with Ramsay's previous playthings, but Sansa Stark is a diamond. And she hated diamonds, she hated them so much she is willing to bury those diamonds on the deepest pit of seven hells.

She watched Ramsay stare at the bricks in front of him, probably chewing on the wall of his mouth. He took a sip and found his answer. "No."

The fire in Myranda swelled. She almost laughed in disbelief and her nails started scratching the armrests of the chair. _Liar. Liar. Liar._ She chanted in her head. She could almost smack the word across Ramsay's face, and yet intended to keep her cool.

"What a pity," she mused, "If the gods could rape mortals, she would have been mysteriously pregnant a thousand times."

Ramsay narrowed his eyes and nodded sleepily after taking another sip. "She would've."

"And if you had me pregnant?"

This time he shot her a look: chafe with one eye, shock with the other. He suppressed laughter, almost spewing the wine he just swallowed, and wiped his mouth the back of his hand. "You never had moon's blood," he replied coldly, "and you don't like children. Remember being thankful you can't have any?"

Myranda's jaw gripped with the pressing of her lips. Her breathing had become shallow and deep. She remembered that, yes. She remembered saying her barrenness was a gift, only when Violet got pregnant. Ramsay was bored with pregnancy. It meant him being gentle in bed, adjusting to mood shifts, and of course, fathering another bastard. So he had her hanged with the accusation that she was carrying another's child. That day, Myranda stared at the hanging corpse, stared at Violet's skin showing blotches of red, her eyes almost popping from their sockets, red and purple at the edges, her mouth wide with dribble pouring from the tip. Her blonde hair billowing was the only gorgeous thing left of her.

And so she decided she will never have the same fate, she would win Ramsay over, she would never get pregnant. She remembered too, yes, secretly sleeping with the Maester's apprentice to have the boy smuggle leaves of Stranger's Gourd from the apothecary. It was a rare treasure, that flora, as it is known to poison the growing life in woman's belly and continuous intake will ruin further chances of reproduction. Every night she would brew and drink it, oftentimes vomiting out at the first sip. Fresh piss would have been a better drink, she thought, ruing the terrible taste that left her tongue numb for days and the walls of her mouth attacked by sores. She would cough, and cover her lips tight to not spill any. She would cry and curse until she had drank it all. And there she is now, with everyone thinking she was born barren (for she poisoned the apprentice later on.)

Myranda bottled her thoughts and stood, her next words would surely send the shivers on Ramsay's skin. She had that effect on him, and she was proud to have this power to have him unfenced, one edge she had among the other women that passed through his bridge.

"And if I did get pregnant? What would you do?" she walked towards him, never breaking of his stare, the heels from her boots patting through their ears. "Hang me? Flay me?" she was now beside him, "or lock me, and...leave me to starve...?"

She lavished on the way blood drained from his face. Ramsay's eyes grew as if she had grown another head. She could almost feel him shivering, and she was victorious. Those last phrases worked every. Single. Time.

Myranda cupped his cheek with a hand and an elfin smile, her fingers tickled by the growing facial hairs. "I know you, my love. We grew together, we did _things_ together. You won't hurt me." She neared her lips on his ear and whispered, "I am the only memory of _her_ that exists now. You don't want to lose that, don't you?"

When their faces parted she could see the destruction on his face. It was only that which can make him cringe in fear. There was a lot to remember about him. Myranda recalled when she was perhaps three or four, catching this boy on the kennels in the dead night when the castle of the Fort was asleep. He had ebony hair, almost long to the shoulders, but uncared for. He wore what seemed like a cape to hide him in the dark. He had no candles to brighten the way. He was thin, and frail, and she saw him crouched in the corner of a hound's cage. She was afraid of the hounds, for they seemed big and monstrous, and could snap at her neck any time. But this boy wasn't afraid. She thought at first his hand was gobbled by the dog, but going near she saw how he patted the head of the beast, and it obeyed with defeat. Then the boy picked on the remains of the hound's food. Lamb bones, barley grains, and rotting venison, it didn't matter. But he wasn't at all eating them, instead, hiding them on his pockets. When he found her staring at him, she was chilled and the air became thick with suspense. The boy slowly stood, his hand spread out in signal for her not to scream or make noise, and with a quick move he ran past her. She almost swooned but was able to watch as he was engulfed in the shadows. And so there she was fed up with nosiness, and never had expected to share his bed years after.

Ramsay shook his head in denial of the fear the spread through his body. He placed his goblet on the table and curled his fists, only to loose them later; curl, and loose, and he couldn't see Myranda smiling.

"Just go." His voice was almost cracking.

She shrugged her shoulders in defeat, and began to move. Midway she stopped, brushed her hand at his left shoulder, and picked something tucked in it. She stared at the thing on her fingers, its red color screaming against her alabaster skin.

"It was worth looking at her close, isn't it?" she asked. Ramsay turned to see what was on her hand. Red and rough. A godswood leaf. It must have found its way between his leathers when he battled against the branches. She tossed it on the table, and was caught by his cup. Its color appeared like cherry as it floated on the wine.

"Sparring?" Myranda rolled her eyes and stamped on the floor as she left, leaving Ramsay staring at the godswood leaf floating on his wine, remembering the red of Sansa's hair spread against the pool.

* * *

 _***"Stranger's Gourd" does not exist in the series nor the books. It's only a phantasm._

 _I am humbled by your reviews. Please give me time to write a response (in a form of my own review) to them every new chapter._


	5. 4 RAMSAY

_There's a room where the light won't find you._

 _Hand-in-hand while the walls come tumbling down._

 _-Everybody Wants to Rule the World_

* * *

He has seen this door a few hundred times and it seemed he was about to see it again: rotting at the edges, termite-stricken, hinges sprawled with rust. The air was moist and decayed, the bricks around it chipped, discolored, ancient. Everything about it was nasty. But this time he didn't see himself standing affront it. He was _in_ himself, meters apart from the door, and even when he doesn't move his legs it seemed that the it was floating towards him. And as if by rote memory he stooped to the floor infested with ants and roaches, and bent even lower to inspect the small rat hole at the lower edge of the door. It came nearer and nearer, and at first he could not see anything, only a dim light perhaps coming from the small window inside. In his head he knew what was in there, be it a beast or a demon, he knew. But he could not think of it, could not name that phantom that lives in the pits of his childhood. His ear was almost touching the floor now, blue eyes anticipating to take sight of what was inside. He was nearer still, and nearer.

Until an eye met his behind the rat hole. Sad and angry at the same time, red at the edges, the white of it wrestled with hair-thin veins, shady below the rim, and the skin around it was breaking.

Ramsay awoke. Eyes half-opened, mouth half-agape.

He did not shudder nor cry aloud, but lifted his head rather sanguinely. He has left himself to slumber half the dawn at the library, the goblet lying on the carpeted floor just above where his fingers dropped it. His booted feet lazily crossed above the table, ruining the parchments and feather pens. He grunted, carrying his immobile body to sit straight. His legs were stricken with numbness, and he had to curse while pressing his heels and toes to bring back life to his feet, chanting "Seven _fucking_ hells..." with every stretch.

When he was finally awake he sat there a while longer, staring at the other table across the table directly in front of him. It made him sick seeing the northern map stretched on it, with the small red paperweights in the shape of an 'X': their sigil, their torture material, scattered in specific points on the map. The night before, his father was there, his monotone voice sending waves of careless slumber on Ramsay's ears. They have been plotting against Stannis Baratheon for days now, prior to his journey to the Iron Throne.

How he hated the headache that came after he drinks to sleep. It seemed to shake his brain and he was almost compelled to crash his skull against the wall. He stood, and with groggy steps he neared the pitcher at the edge of a window. Finding it empty he cursed and let it fall on the floor, and at last there, beside it was a goblet half full with water. He immediately took hold of it and splashed the liquid on his face.

The relief was unimaginable for a moment. Ramsay sighed whilst feeling the burning on his cheeks subside. The beads of water played along his growing beard and he remembered not having shaved in a fortnight. Reek used to do it.

Reek. Ramsay looked out the window, not to see the white flakes quay in mid air, but to think how he can keep Theon Greyjoy a secret. He is to marry in days, he recognized, and he couldn't conceal Reek forever. It was too early to bury him as well, there were still too many body parts of him intact. And then he thought of his bride. Sansa Stark. His neck stung with heat at the declaration of her name. When he saw her floating in the pond, arms outstretched and lightly freckled alabastrine skin against the dark water, how he wanted to take her there and then, to satiate himself at the scent of her breasts, to bury his face on the flesh of her stomach, to pour all he is within her as if she was the only woman left in the realm.

Ramsay closed his eyes to ideate her below him, red hair messed on her face, skin glittered with sweat or spit it didn't matter. When he touched her hand at the Winterfell gates it was as if she touched him between the legs, and when their skin parted he ached and almost wanted to throw a tantrum. But he kept her scent on the spot where her skin kissed his, and it almost drowned him insane.

And then his brows furrowed. The scent was coming back, a stronger wave this time. He turned to the door that led to this room. He inhaled, it was real. He didn't know how he came to have a strong sense of smell, but he is known as the mad dog, and hounds do have this particular quality. But it only occurred on people's scents, yes. He knew his father's scent, rigid like old pine, and his stepmother's fleshy one, like heated animal fat.

And then he heard her shaky voice and almost made him jump. Sansa Stark, the _girl_ he was fantasizing only breath ago, is just outside the half-opened door to this room. As if his legs had their own minds, it led him towards it, his chest hardly pumping. He didn't want to see her, he knew. It was useless. He already wants her, and knew that he had to wait for their wedding night to assuage his need.

"I need...excuse me!"

Ramsay figured she is calling out to a maid who had swiftly walked away, unable to take notice of her. He heard her sigh in disappointment, and her heels about to return to her chamber but paused. She might have seen the door, might be struck with curiosity. _Don't._ Ramsay prayed as if any god would have the grace to hear him. He heard her soft footsteps, the heels of her boots reverberating on the bricked floor, coming.

 _Don't_.

He swallowed and stepped back, anticipating what comes next. And he was right. The door was pushed, its hinges creaked, hiding the sound of his movement shielding himself behind it. The red of her hair was the first thing he saw. Its braids intricately running around her head. He often wondered why women would even bother wasting time on their hair, but Sansa's braids were beautiful. Everything about her is. She wore a dark moss-green silk, almost resembling the water on the Godswood pond, its hem, sleeves and collar embroidered with crisscrossing gold thread. She looked around, and noticed the map on the wide wooden table. He saw her pick a paperweight up and examine it, probably disgusted, probably awed, he didn't care. _You're mine. Oh you're mine._ He was engrossed in thinking about her and did not restrain himself from pushing the door to its lock.

Sansa was startled at the heavy thud, and was even more horrified to see who it was behind it. The door was fastened, and Ramsay seemed to be guarding it. He saw the blood drain from her face, making her even paler.

"How nice of you to visit me," he heard himself speak. Sansa pursed her lips and made a quick scan of him. For a moment he felt conscious, and decided to convince himself he neither looked nor smelled funny.

"I—I was lost." Her voice was almost in a whisper.

Ramsay marvelled at how she could be so timid at the sight of him, how much more to when he would rave himself inside her. "Lost? This is your home. How can you be lost?" He was slowly walking towards her, eyes almost parting her collar. He placed his arms behind him, careful not to have them lunge at her without prior notice.

Sansa breathed in and wet her lips with an almost drying tongue, unknowing how it made Ramsay feel the twitch on his trousers. They were only a foot away now, and to him she was even more beautiful up close.

"I'm sorry to have bothered you, my lord. You seem..." Sansa turned her back to him, recognizing the map, and turned silently hysterical to have forgotten where she picked up the paperweight still rough on her fingers, "...busy."

Ramsay noted the hint of unease on her voice, and moved his hand to cover hers which was holding the cross of Dreadfort. "Your fingers are cold, my lady." He was calm and resolute, and none of them could explain the peace starting to wallow his soul. He lead her hand to where she picked it up, and steadily rested the cross just above the picture of the Riverrun castle. When the paperweight emptied her hand, his fingers took over, intertwining hers with delight, "Let me keep them warm."

He can hear her spasmodic breathing, and he relished the feel of her palm. Her hand was small and soft against his calluses, it was like the break of sunshine after winter. And it ended when Sansa shook their hands off, her cheeks spotted with rosy color, her blue eyes placid and disturbed together. Ramsay looked away in frustration, his emptied hand forming a fist.

Sansa cleared her throat, and still with her back facing him, she spoke. "I should go now."

Every bit of Ramsay protested. A breath ago he was almost in a haven, where he felt apathetic with all the hurt that had been haunting, and now his ticket to that place was about to abandon him again. Quickly he locked her within his scope, forming a triangle with the edge of the table and his arms, and Sansa trapped inside it. His hands gripped on the edges of the wood, not minding whether he crumpled the border of the map. His front hip was against her buttocks, and she gasped.

The fine hairs on Sansa's neck stood. She trembled at the feel of Ramsay's face on her hair. She can smell the wine spirits on his breath. Her lips trembled along with her shoulders, the tremors moistening her eyes.

"You just got here," Ramsay whispered and inhaled on her braids, stuck his nose on the back of her neck and slowly paced down from her ear to the shoulder. To him she smelled like autumn, like fresh almonds, like myrtle beside a clear stream. She brought him back to sentinel tree tops, pine and eucalyptus, where he used to climb when he was younger, his bow strung across his smaller body, a dead pigeon or squirrel tied on the buckles of his hunting trousers, and he would sit like a sloth there, watching the sun drown in thin fiery clouds. She smelled of fern, and wild purple orchids, and periwinkle blossoms. She smelled like dawn and magic, and he took it all in selfishly.

Ramsay rested his forehead on Sansa's shoulder and exhaled, still overwhelmed with how she was able transport him back to the forest of home in just a split second. Myranda plainly smelled like a stagnant creek, and hound fur too. But he didn't mind, at least she could please him, and she was good at doing so. He felt the sudden spasm on Sansa's shoulder, and without him knowing, his hands were resting on her body: the left on the flat of her stomach, the other on the curve of her hip which was thickened with the smallclothes underneath. He had been trying to tame himself, restricting his body from the call of her aura. But this time he shoved it all with a curse, he was there, and she was there, and the world was theirs.

Sansa closed her eyes and bit her lip, suppressing a sob. Her chest was thrumming with fear, and it felt like music to Ramsay's skin. He traced the concave of her waist with light fingers, his lips still on her ear. "You're so beautiful..."

 _And I want you here. Now. I want you naked, and helpless, and smiling._

"Th—Thank you," Sansa firmed herself this time, still feeble at the edges.

 _I want you bare, and bleeding._ "We're betrothed, Sansa," _Fuck the waiting._ "Don't you think we should get to know more of each other?"

Sansa inclined her head, feeling Ramsay's lips brushed on the nape of her neck. "Yes...my lord."

He placed both hands on either side of her hips. And it was in this most critical moment that he battled with his body. _Fuck the wedding._ What was the point of waiting for the wedding night when they would eventually do it? He could take her there _now_. He could tear her gown and lay her face-down on the table, watch the map and cross-figured paperweights be scattered and ruined as she would struggle, he could grip her wrists together behind her and hear her scream his name in both pain and pleasure. He could draw her maiden's blood and have it smeared on his skin, he could even taste it, yes, and force him to be a part of her. He could run his tongue between her legs, kiss her navel, and bite her breasts. And he could pour life into her belly, and have her birth a wolf with eyes as blue as paradise.

His hold on her hips tightened, and he almost growled restraining himself. She's too young, he recognized, almost six years their distance, and fragile as a dove. But he too, recognized her courage to still stand, bent perhaps but still standing, despite witnessing the execution of her father, the raping of her home, and the agreement to marry the bastard son of the cunt who betrayed and murdered her mother and brother. She was tougher that anyone would have thought.

"Do you believe in love, Sansa...?" Ramsay questioned out of the void, resting his forehead behind her ear. Her answer would help him cease the madness wild between his legs.

"Yes."

And there he surrendered, freeing her from his hands, letting her walk away. _Only now._ Sansa drew a sigh of relief, perceiving the cage bars lifted around her.

"Go." He blurted in defeat. Sansa moved away, and decided to see him for the last time, before bowing her head to continue her path to the door. Her fading footsteps equalled the deadening of his joy. When she pulled the door, he clamoured within.

"Sansa."

She stopped midway from completely exiting and silently waited for his want despite seeing only his back unmoved from where she left him. He turned his head a quarter so she could only see the side of his face, his eyes looking down.

"Don't"

"What...?"

"Don't believe in it."

She was stunned. "Why?"

Ramsay could almost read her mind. That there was less truth in what he said. That the world was cruel because it was devoid of love. But she grew in a house built with it, with lord Eddard and lady Catelyn, and her brothers and sister (all dead, as presumed). He knew that to her, love isn't phantasm. It was not only shared by knights and ladies in some grandmother's bedtime stories. It was real, but isolated. But he did never believe in it.

 _I do not have it._

"Because it's stupid and it does not exist."

Without seeing Sansa, he can imagine her plainly staring at him, and he knew she left. Her scent was slowly fading. Ramsay looked at both his hands, filling it with the image of her face, her ocean eyes staring up at him. He would be happy if those eyes were looking at him, but then he questioned if it was looking at someone else.

He needed to give Reek a task. He needed to know where Sansa is, what she does, and the people she meets. He needed assurance that she would be his, until the wedding at least.


	6. 5 ARYM

_My thoughts_  
 _Your nakedness besets_  
 _My fantasies_  
 _Your lechery buffets..._

 _~juddbryl_

* * *

DAWN turned up crispier and colder as if the Stranger was paying them a visit, and is resolved to be the castellan of the place. Snow has spread across the ground, prints of booted feet and hooves messed on the surface. He tugged the bridles of the great brown courser which was calm with obedience, ears flicking and black eyes sleepy. His cape had become a nuisance. He had been shrugging it off the shoulder many times. Pausing to fix his gait, he stared at the walls of the castle, breath spewing a thin fog, eyes unsure where to turn next. This Winterfell is bloody huge, he thought, these stone walls, a labyrinth of baileys and courtyards, towers and tunnels spreading in all directions. He needed to map out this place and stick it under his nose to not get lost anymore. Or perhaps he was the one too ignorant about castles, not having born nor bred in one. He was once a wilding.

Nothing is as vapid as being born to a woman too young to conceive and too young to have died in that childbirth. She was only ten and six years, flaxen-haired and deep green eyes and beautiful, so they say. She never named a father, but rumours spread she was raped by an Other during the dead of night. Some mouthed it was a wolf, and in another verse, the spirit of a self-destructive Thenn she rejected: the product being a boy with dirty gold hair and eyes of strange indigo. He suckled on the nipples of a nursing spearwife for six months, and goat's milk for the rest, passed on from a spearwife to another to care for, as none would want to own a boy believed to be a child of black magic.

At three he was running, constantly bruised and bleeding and scarred at the knees. Five was the age when he mastered speaking. At eight, he had his first kill: a young elk with one broken antler, one he had tracked for a day and a half, wounded at the belly on first contact, and slashed in the eye upon the second. He was proud to drag it back to camp, scrawny fingers warm with excitement, but only held a piece of the leg as a prize for the catch. And as he nibbled on the meatless bone he was sure he wanted to run away, envious and wanting for a world beyond what everyone calls The Wall.

At eleven he has seen it, that huge barricade of steaming ice, and his interest peaked upon knowing there is life beyond that wall, a life peculiar and disgusting among the free folk. But he was wanting to be part of that peculiarity, to start over as a blank slate, even if it means scorching his chest with the word _deserter_ with a hot branding iron. So at thirteen started to trek in secrecy but a snowstorm caused such white blindness and forced him to return. At fourteen he courted luck but was tracked by villains his people named the Crows. An arrow slid across his arm at the chase, and he needed to have it be mended by the crones of his place.

At fifteen he succeeded breaking free and crashed himself on a small hamlet after two fortnights of running, ears purpled at the edges, lips and skin cracked with dehydration, fingers and toes nearly bloodless. If not for the small old man with a turnip garden and a fat milking goat, he would not have made it this far. He stayed and fed with the grandfather, was taught the life of a baseborn man, and adopted such living. He learned of the great houses, their ways, their clothing, and their addressing of lords and ladies. _Unlearn your wilding ways then,_ the old man repeated. He would consent. To feed them he would hunt, but sport in the grass was few: hares, sometimes squirrel, sometimes owl, and rarely a boar with itching tusks. He stayed for three and a half years until coming home to the old man who fell and broke his hip, abandoning the control on both feeble legs.

They came to a halt, the horse and he, to find the beasts' mate where they left her with his archer paraphernalia. It was a white mare ready for breeding, and he was about to take both to the stable keeper. But something else was there, a tall figure hooded in black and back facing him. He came to know it was not something but rather _someone._ And it was a girl. She has long fingers, pink at the tips, and gentle. He could tell by the way she touched the jaw of the animal, and how the mare responded to her enticement. She soothed the horse with bland hushes while patting its mane as if she had been its master.

"Careful now," he called out heartily and she turned with hands letting go of the horse's neck. It gave out a soft neigh and a twitch in the tail. And he almost saw the sky in her eyes. She had a pale face, cheeks flecked with pink, and lips limned with warm red. The hood concealed her hair, making her look strangely mysterious and he was quick to admire. When he was still far beyond the wall, the only beauty that struck him was Val, Mance's sister-in-law. She had fair skin, too, and hair as bright brocade, and no one dared to carry her off because she was more than skilled with her daggers.

The hooded girl was still eyeing him as he approached with the courser, and he was pretentious not to look delighted at the sight of her.

"She gets pretty cranky when hungry," he was finally beside her and placed a hand between the female horse's eyes whilst looking at them too, "haven't been fed since twilight."

She was silent, but he perceived she was either a good listener or a mute, but neither can make her less pretty.

"She's yours too?"

He paused, partly glad she responded, partly warmed with her voice. It was like butter melting on warm baked barley. She was referring to both horses.

"Perhaps," he answered and again pulled on the bridles of the courser as if to introduce it to the mare, "found her on the woods some time before, and she's to be married." He meant it as a jest, but the way she flinched at his last word told him it wasn't funny, and the smile on his face wiped out. He cleared his throat as if to unsay everything. But was glad she saved him from the embarrassment.

"She's beautiful," the girl said, stroking the mare's back where a saddle should have been. He slowly turned his face to her, seeing how much she was captivated by the beast, and pulled back the gentle smile on his lips.

He was still looking at her when he spoke, wanting to talk of the mare but wanting to refer to her as well. "She is."

But then his smile disappeared when he saw the strange figure peeking through the posts of the parapet behind and above them. He recognized the creature: grimy and foul-smelling, with skin deprived of a bathe for what seemed like a year, plagued with rashes and boils, rags mucked with mud and shit alike. They had the same straw-colored hair but differed in hygiene. Stories say he was once a lord of someplace called the Iron lands—islands, he couldn't remember well. This one was punished—Dreadfort way—for the betrayal of the lord Stark, a name he'd been hearing since he was young, a powerful one. But this one was said to have murdered two Stark boys, one cripple and the other a toddler, and with these backstabbings he lost almost half his fingers and toes, his cock, and his lordship; now only sleeping in the kennels, skin-and-bones and lice-infested and ugly.

Many of them would have wanted to take _its_ life out of mercy, instead of seeing ittrembling and timid in fear of Bolton's merciless son.

When they locked eyes, the creature immediately cringed and left as if he was thrown an arrow.

The girl, sensing her company's attention had fluttered to somewhere behind her, turned her back to see what lurked there but only saw an empty parapet. He sliced away the distraction and paced back to where they were. He would probably just bid her farewell for a stable keeper who was waiting for the horses. But in his mind he wanted more time to linger.

"What's your name?" he asked.

She stared at his eyes and the familiar awe caused spasms under his skin, but it felt as if she was looking deep into him, looking for assurance and trust—with fear. It was just a name he asked, what would make her doubtful?

It took a while before she answered with lashes lowered, "Sansa."

It set him faintly smiling. "It suits you."

"And you?"

"Arym."

Sansa slowly nodded with lips parted, as if saying a small and silent _aah_. "Sounds like Arryn."

He gave a small laugh, "The vale? I—I don't belong to any house."

Silence reigned, and Arym figured it did because she was looking at something that sparkled in his chest. He took it between the fingers and she flushed realizing she was caught looking below his neck.

He took it off above the head and handed it to her for inspection, returning the favor of saving him from embarrassment just a few heartbeats past. Sansa stared at it, and to him, and back to it again, unable to decide whether she was too nosy of jewels the way normal girls have been. The way she had been before. She took it with a light nod of gratitude and eyed the jewel. It was as small as her thumb, but heavy for its size, had an irregular shape but resembled more of oblong, part of its surface rough, partly suave. But it was the color that intrigued her: for at first sight it would be black, but a twist under light turns it into an ombre of purple and gold. It reminded her of sweet dreams and star-studded night skies, of poisoned wine and grape candies.

Arym could sense that she was almost breathless, and almost conspiring to never return it instead. She could even see her reflection, minimized and distorted, but it did not alter her ache for it. He was smirking, for it was almost always what he sees with someone who sets eyes on it. But he was not ready—perhaps never—to hand it over.

"What is it...?" she heard herself say, and decided it was stupid to ask. She had given away the hint that she wanted it for herself.

"I'm not sure myself,"

"Is it from your wife?" Sansa pulled her eyes from the jewel and looked at him.

He chuckled, "I don't have any."

"A lover?"

He shook his head, half-smiling.

"You found it?" she was determined to know.

"Mifather did,"

Sansa wet her lips, and looked at it again, angry purple against her fingers, "Seems like your eyes,"

"So he said,"

"He must have loved you too much to give it,"

"I'd like to think so."

"Where is he?" Sansa turned to him. And all this time he noticed he was just looking at her, recounting every word she was saying, painting her in his mind, asking himself what color was behind her hood. And at her question he felt the sullenness provoke.

Sansa was abashed. "I'm sorry," her voice was small and trembling.

"Don't be," Arym consoled. The courser moved back with a grunt and a neigh, and he hushed it as if it was a baby off its mother's arms. "It was a fall. Broke his legs, and fevered him. He wasn't truly mifather. He had a daughter. An' I learnt it only when he was almost dying."

The last word was harsh, he acknowledged, but dark words were dark words no matter how it was said. "That was hers."

Sansa swallowed. He sensed she wished to learn further. And it would be the first of time he was to reveal to anyone that old man's melancholia. He kept brushing the horse's neck, not wanting to see her saddened eyes for it might drown him into emotions as well.

"Said it was Valyrian. Glass or steel or stone, anything Valyrian is magic. She loved it, but was in love with a farmer's boy as well, which Father did not approve. So she ran off and married. But she returned. Ruined and pregnant."

His fingers welcomed the chill that started rummaging through his veins, "Said their house set aflame, and herself ravaged under the tree her husband hanged lifeless. The cause: being married without consent."

Sansa was almost choking back shock, he sensed, but it was alright, he wanted to say, he felt the same when he saw how the old man trembled weeping on his death bed. But this is as far as he can reveal; he still doesn't know her quite well. She might be beautiful, yes, but like perfume: fragrant but poisonous, she might be corrupted too.

"Whose consent...?" she asked. Arym can feel the fear underneath her seemingly brave voice. At her question he merely shrugged, the answer at the tip of his tongue and he looked away as he lied to not know of it.

"What happened to her?"

He thought of it awhile. It wouldn't hurt to give her more, would it?

"She told her father many times to go to the man who forced into her, and many times he wouldn't let it. But she fled the night she gave birth when her father was still asleep, leaving a note she birthed a boy, and with that note, her necklace. It was a promise that she would be back, to give it to her son," he earned the courage to look at her, face sombre and sullen, "She never came back."

A cold breeze touched them like Death's breath, trickling on his hair, waving on her hood and cape. He saw no tears in her eyes, but it was evident on them that she was taken over with pain. If she had turned afraid, she was good at hiding it.

Sansa brushed her thumb at the surface of the stone, sheen on her fingers. She could still see her minute reflection.

"Seems to call out to you, is it?"

"Yes, like she's trapped here," she spoke without ad lib, and it seemed too, that the stone was pulling out words from her mouth she wasn't meant to be saying, "Anything Valyrian is magic, you say, and some are cursed. It is a cursed place."

He was taken aback but unafraid. And he can more than agree with her. There was uncertainty in that jewel, something spectral and sacrilegious. And unlike all those who have seen it before her, Sansa had eyes that delved deeper into its psyche, into that bitterness that rooted within. And he has not mentioned how, one night he woke inside a burning house, but was invincible of the flames. So he walked along like a ghost, and fearless too, and he heard a woman screaming, leading him to the lone tree in a hill, with a man kicking the air as he was hanged to his death, and the woman helpless below him as she was stripped off and ravished. And he saw the face of the man that did it, taking pleasure as he plunged into her, again and again, gagging her mouth so she could keep the screaming to herself. Another night he woke at a tugging in his arm, and opened his eyes to the same wronged woman. She had turned bony and pale, her eyes sunken. He could see the hallows of her skull. Most of her hair had fallen out. He slowly sat both with pity and fear, assuming she might grab his neck with black and bleeding fingernails. _Help me_ , he read on her cracked lips. He shook his head, wanting to know how he can, and it was the horror that filled him when she raised her arm tight between her teeth and pulled away a lump of skin and blood. Much as he wanted to stop her, she was untouchable. And in both occasions he woke with a scream, dagger tight on his grip, fiercely breathing in angst. Sweat heavily dripping even in a terrible storm.

 _That stone lives_ , he wanted to blurt out, but restrained himself from moving Sansa's adoration to disgust for the jewel. _It wants to murder her raper and be with her son._

And so here he was, in the Bolton sanctuary, in a nest of vipers.

A snowflake landed on Sansa's shoulder. She looked at it and both eyed up to meet the sight of more flakes descending on them. The horses stirred, but it wasn't of the snow, but of company flowing in.

Arym was disturbed to have sensed the prickling on Sansa's skin. It was as if she knew the people looking at them even without seeing them. They turned to meet the gazes to two men, one with a long and callous face, covered in long black hair from head to beard, to match his dark leathers. They call him Small Jon. And the other, generally known as his master and heir to the now warden of the north, was looking at him plain and staidly. His cape covered half his body, partly revealing the tin crest of Dreadfort, the flayed man on a cross, strapped in leathers on his broad chest. Arym was first to move.

He bowed in memorized acknowledgement, "Lord Bolton."

The lord he addressed gave a nod in return, and when his eyes moved to Sansa, his straight lips reformed to a smile, but too obvious that it was faux. He walked under the snow, with Small Jon following behind, their hair and shoulders being studded with white.

"You shouldn't be out here," Ramsay Bolton announced, condescending, "you could get sick."

Arym saw how Ramsay's gaze travelled from Sansa's eyes to her cheek and left stuck on her lips. He was sure the young lord is captivated, who would not be? Even in her hood and cape, her face was more than enough to attract an army.

"I needed some air." Sansa's voice was small again. Ramsay strode his eyes back to the man who had been with her, "Arym,"

"Yes milord." It indeed wasn't the first of times Ramsay had spoken to him. Arym had military craft, handsome and graceful as a knife at nineteen, liable to train and command archers. He would have made a valiant knight, or a tasteful lord, had it been he was born in the realm.

"I thank you for keeping lady Stark company. She is quite lonely sometimes," Ramsay introduced, "My betrothed needs people to help her get used to the strangeness of her home."

Arym's mouth parted, eyes stupefied at how he had been too careless with the way he dealt with her. _Lady Stark._ It was almost impossible. He heard the name quite a hundred times beyond the wall, that the Starks had wildling blood flowing in them. Immediately he bent knee, face apologetic and specked with shame, "I—I'm sorry, my lady. Had I known...it was shameless of me..."

"It's alright," Sansa cut off. "It's alright. I don't mind."

Arym straightened himself, still unable to look at the lady, unable to melt the shock dribbling on his mind. She was flushing as well to have placed him in an uncertain situation, and would have wanted to apologize but knew it would drag them to a quarrel much sooner.

Silence took over and Arym could fathom the pressure on Ramsay's look. If it were air, he would have suffocated. He knew the cruelty of the man, from the way he took joy in peeling skin off innocents and enemies alike, and on what how he mutilated that creature he calls Reek, piece by piece. He was half expecting Ramsay would command Small Jon to have him thrown in to be whipped out of disrespect to his lady. And then he thought of Sansa, to have been engaged to this animal wrapped in human skin. It was like giving a lamb to a lion, like forcing a crow to a dove.

He saw how Ramsay raised Sansa's chin with his thumb and forefinger, "My lady is merciful," he smiled, "I'll take you back from here then. I wouldn't want my lady catching the cold." He moved his hand from her chin to her cheek, "I have a wonderful thought, my love. Would you want hear it?"

Sansa silently nodded, looking back at him.

"Perhaps we should dine tonight, don't you think? With my bannermen and commandants of the army. It's high time I proclaim our engagement." Ramsay strode his eyes to Arym, blue against indigo, half-smiling, "Men are beginning to think you are free to be claimed."

Sansa turned to Arym with a quest to defend. "Arym was only—"

Ramsay's lips were over hers before everyone could protest. Even Small Jon was backed. Arym subdued a breath at the sudden exhibit and looked away. He remembered the necklace was still in her grip, but was wise to not ask for it. There will be another chance.

When Ramsay parted from Sansa's face, he brushed the rosy color that pecked on her cheek. "You were saying...?"

"Nothing, my lord." She looked down, flushed and silenced and cleared out she need not say what she was meaning to.

"Tonight it is, I do have a gift for you," Ramsay waited for a nod from Sansa. When she did, he gently pulled her close and kissed her on the forehead whilst aiming a look at Arym. Acrid and perilous, close to hostility as a starving beast.

It was a warning clear as daylight.

* * *

 _It gets longer the further. Welcome to my world._

 _-Athenares_


	7. 6 REEK

_Of course I'll hurt you._

 _Of course you'll hurt me._

 _Of course we will hurt each other._

 _But this is the very condition of existence._

 _(A.E.)_

* * *

IT is happening. The great hall was filling with people.

Reek stood, trembling behind the crevices of the wooden door hidden between the grey curtains. Tonight he will be paraded and with that thought his stomach coiled, but not that he wasn't used to his stomach coiling. He was surely used to it now, after his innards had grown tough on the wormed and corrupted stuffs that his master used to feed him. His mouth was pested with sores. When his teeth weren't knocked out by an aggravated Ramsay, it fell voluntarily. And every night when his stomach revolted, he shat water and mud and worms, cleaved with the grossest odor that would laugh at the smell of the skinless carcass hanging on the Winterfell gates.

He was vexed with the feat of having Sansa behold him. He was teary-eyed and crying all over again, wanting to run, wanting to rather slit his throat than see her eyes rain arrows on him. But there was no way Ramsay would let him take his life. If there was something the mad dog was too patient about for the longest time, it would be letting Reek alive and in the name of his throbbing, empty fingers he did not know why.

Feasts in Winterfell's great halls were not like this, Reek remembered. Everything used to be radiant as if sunlight was beaconed on them. Now the giant candelabra hung dead and morose, the only light that filled the room were torches but no matter how many torches may be lit and hung, it still cannot dissolve the greyness that clung on the bricked walls where the red and yellow Dreadfort banners were draped over. There was no music, no fiddles and flutes. There was only the sound of footsteps and serving girls' ragged skirts brushing against the floor. When Lord and Lady Stark threw banquets, there was life in the castle walls, there were colors from the dyed pelts that adorned the lesser lords and ladies who come in with smiles and painted lips and braided hairs, there were fiddles, zithers, laughter and dancing, and Lady Catelyn apprehending her balky children, especially the little rat Arya who was throwing or poking pork bones at her siblings.

Now he was seeing such a funereal sight, like a cult's gathering in the middle of the woods under the sickly moonlight. Maids, Myranda among them, walked in and out with tin cutleries, plates and goblets lining on the long table. Men came in with their dark boiled leathers, dark capes, dark trousers, dark moleskin gloves; their bodies draped with supple chainmail, and fingers wrapped around goblets filled to the brim with bitter ale. A very few women were present, faces bleak with their earthen-colored robes, their hair like nests around their shoulders. They were more fit to grieve the carcasses of war than join this dinner.

When the buttered venison and spiced wine was brought in, the air had become cheerful, at least. Even Reek felt his mouth salivating and the emptiness of his belly squalled. He craned his neck to see the view of the prizes laid on the table, along with platters of raisin pastry and fruit, but he blenched when the thick footsteps of lord Roose Bolton threatened to pull him off his hiding place.

Lord Bolton paused affront the door that hid the mad dog's pet. Reek trembled. None knew Ramsay's other agenda that night but only them both, and his blood went stagnant when Ramsay threatened to take an ear off him if he even had the thinking to tell it to anyone. "It's meant to surprise, Reek," he said, smirking as he laced the collar of his vest, "we should see their faces."

"This is outrageous,"

Reek can hear Roose's words clearly. He can trace two shadows now, one taller than Lord Bolton, with long and thick hair. Small Jon.

"We are running off supplies and my half-brained son has put up..." he waved his arms in frustration, "this. Whatever this is." He scoffed, "A gift for the Stark girl, he says. Better be worthy or I'll flay one of his hounds myself."

"The boy's in-love with her." Small Jon managed a smile which neither Roose nor Reek coded to be truth or mocking.

Roose shook his head rather disapprovingly, "He's flaunting her. For her pretty face and perky teats. Even if she were indeed a wolf but looked like a boar, he'd have her beaten the second I turn my back on them."

Small Jon gave silence as an answer, and Roose decided to move to their seats on the elevated platform to meet his wobbling wife before everyone: less than a hundred people as Ramsay promised, bannermen and commandants and their consorts or mistresses alike. Reek has also identified faces he was versed off but can only pull lord Karstark's son from memory, once Robb's pawn, both a traitor like the Theon Greyjoy he once was.

When the whispers died, Reek's veins pulsated. As everyone turned to the platform with faces of feigned adoration, he began to feel the familiar trembling that always shook him whenever he sees the Dreadfort cross. He peeked to see the people bow to the Bolton father and son, one perplexed with impatience and the other excited.

"Rise." Ramsay gestured and everyone did like puppets on their strings.

He was exulted and well dressed like a knight on his appointment. Clad in all black, with a silver Dreadfort sigil on his chest, Ramsay was a god.

Everyone can see it in the brightness of his eyes that something taboo was approaching, and they were skilled at hiding the disturbance they perceive. He took a copper goblet of his own, had it filled, and with an aristocrat smile he urged everyone to share his felicity.

"I welcome you all on this grandiosity," Ramsay started, "because the gods have given me a gift."

Among the pool of faces, Reek caught one which radiated hurt and ire. Myranda was blooming with venom whilst bowing her head and chewing on her bottom lip. He can almost smell the blood that she was tasting.

"The gift that would finally stand with us side by side as we unite the north..." Ramsay caught breath, only to be worded out proud and strong, "has been given to me as a bride!"

Whispers began to float, the heads and faces started scattering, eager to approve or oppose or both. Their necks began to stretch to see the fiery-haired dame entering from the side of the platform and Reek's pupils dilated.

Sansa climbed the short steps that led to Ramsay's outstretched hand. She wore a scarlet gown with long and wide-rimmed sleeves; half her hair was clipped on either sides of her ears, and the rest rippling like a stream to her waist.

She was still soft and solemn, like the little girl she once was, needle and thread between her fingers and embroidering from dusk to dawn. Reek ached at the memories of her, of when she rode her first pony and all at the stables were fond of her pretty hair and blue Tully eyes. She had cheeks as rosy pomegranates, and every inch a fairy was. He had been staring at her until Robb blew dust on his eye which made it sore with pus for days. Robb was never sorry for that he called his own version of "King's Justice" to teach Theon not to spy on his sister (he had been saying that Sansa's chest was made of half-baked dough). When Sansa was growing still, he used to hope Lord Eddard would give her to him as a bride, as a price for his services to house Stark. It wouldn't hurt, he said to himself, he was also a trueborn lord of the Iron islands, a kraken and a wolf wouldn't be as bad as it looks like.

And now he was watching her take the hand of his persecutor, eyes down and half-smiling unhappily. The people remained still and unstirred like the gargoyles they were, and Ramsay gently kissed his betrothed's hand, afterwhich raising his goblet to her.

"My lady," he acknowledged, "we are all family, we northerners."

The audience stiffly and coldly held to their cups.

"Our blood ties go back thousands of years, so I'd like to drink to our wedding. May our happiness spread from Moat Cailin..." he smirked, "... to the last hearth."

As Sansa stared awkwardly, Roose was one to save her by proclaiming the toast to the crowd, "To your wedding,"

"To your wedding," the people echoed dryly and less harmonious.

Reek watched them all touch their cups to their lips. Not all, though, as there was still Myranda embraced in cold ambience, glaring at Ramsay like an angry coal. And one more, leaning a shoulder against a rafter, his goblet untouched. He recognized the archer with the straw-painted hair. Sansa's friend from the morning, there below the parapets where he watched him approach her. Reek's lips tightened when he remembered the man glance at his shadowed presence. He was supposed to be still and invisible, Master said, he should keep an eye on her. Failing means losing one eye and be forced to gobble it for he can still keep watch on her with only one eye left anyway.

The archer was steady, stance unbent while staring at the platform. There was awe that graced his face, and other than that, pity. He would look at the stage, shake his head lazily, lower his gaze to the cup he wouldn't kiss, and back to the stage once more. He was itched with dismay, and it posed a danger that Reek did not miss.

 _No._ Reek pleaded with trembling breaths. _No. Do not stare at her. Master will be angry. He will cut you piece by piece. Like Theon Greyjoy._ His eyes teared up and a sudden gush of thwart beamed inside him. _There will be no escape. Theon Greyjoy tried to escape. Keep your eyes off her._ _M-master will punish me too._

And through it all, everyone was asked to sit with the signal of Ramsay's hand. Walda was last to get comfortable at the side of her husband. As Sansa, too, perched herself on her chair, Ramsay took a last gulp off his goblet and wiped his mouth with his sleeve.

"Ah, I promised you a gift didn't I?" He talked to her, but it was as if he talked to everyone. He chuckled, "Oh you'll love this."

Reek suppressed a sob, curling and hugging his weakened knees. He was hearing the iron footsteps of Ramsay's men nearing the door that was the only thing standing between him and the hall. Curiosity shook the guests as their eyes followed where the men were leading to. The men stopped on either side of the doorposts, awaiting Ramsay's words.

"I present to you, my dear bride," Ramsay held his hand above his head and the men held the wooden knobs. Reek was now covering his face, almost scratching his eyes out.

"Vengeance."

With a swing of the hand, Reek was exposed.

He was slow to stand, his mind was a war of terror and resistance, shown by the tears that streaked his face and the snot that lined from his nose to beard. He bowed his head and straightened his lips but kept his eyes to the ground. His first step was rustic. Another, and another. He felt like entertainment, like a broken bird thrown in a nest of cobras, and he can feel their slitted eyes and fangs showing to him. With every step he limped, he hears the hushes, and the stepping away of those that he came near to.

Ramsay was in full smirk, pleased with himself. He looked at his bride who was beginning to lose the color on her face.

"Don't you remember him, my lady?" he asked but wasn't meaning to wait for an answer. He turned to Reek who was stopped trembling in the middle of the hall. "Why don't you come nearer, my lady can't see you,"

When he didn't move, Ramsay's eyes flashed and he inclined his head, "Reek? I told you to come nearer."

Sansa's breathing shallowed, her lips began to quiver. Reek inched another step and pinched his eyes shut to calm the tears.

"Nearer." Ramsay commanded. Reek obliged.

"Now, look up."

Sansa swallowed and forced a tiny voice, "Stop."

"What?" Ramsay turned to her, "Why? Aren't you pleased?" and back to Reek, "I said look up, Reek. Look at her. Look at the sister of the Northern King you wronged. The daughter of the warden you betrayed."

Reek pulled his head to the side before forcefully raising it to meet Sansa's watery eyes.

Ramsay placed a hand on Sansa's frozen shoulder. A tear escaped her eye and he caught it on her cheek with his forefinger. Sansa looked away at the touch and wiped her face.

"See how you displease her? She is very, very unhappy now." Ramsay told Reek who sniffed.

Roose was holding his breath and pinched his temples as he sighed. Walda had the chubby face that reached out consoling to Sansa.

"Of course," Ramsay stepped forward with the still glint in his eyes. He was the only one enjoying this. "I would feel the same after you...you...would kill my brothers too. But don't despair, my little bird, he is not a lord anymore. He is not Theon Greyjoy anymore." Moving his eyes to Reek, he asked, "Aren't you?"

Reek nodded.

"So who are you now?" Ramsay asked.

"Reek, Master, my name is Reek." _Reek. Reek. Rhymes with freak._

"What are you now?"

"Your servant, master. Loyal and...and true."

Ramsay flashed a smile at Sansa whose eyes were red at the rims.

"And you owe Lady Sansa an apology, Reek. You did bad things to hurt her, that's why I had to punish you. You understand that, don't you, Reek, why I had to punish you?"

The broken man nodded.

"Now, apologize to Lady Sansa."

Roose was holding on his seat, eyes burning with shame. But couldn't stop what was occurring nonetheless.

"Reek, apologize." Ramsay echoed.

"I'm sorry."

"Look at her, Reek. In the eye. She needs to see you sincere and true."

Reek met Sansa's eyes again. Brown against azure. "I'm sorry,"

"For what?" Ramsay asked.

"For killing your brothers..."

Sansa looked down and sniffed. Her hands forming to fists.

Silence reigned like poison.

"There!" Ramsay grinned with arms outstretched. "All's ended well, I suppose." Even Roose let out a comforted breath and shook his head.

Reek was soft and convinced. He wasn't meaning to be presented as a _gift_. He was meant to torture Sansa with memories she was so vulnerable with, not yet beating and biting her as what he does to his whores. Ramsay has no claim on her. Yet. But he was punishing her for this morning's rendezvous with the archer, and he was locking her neck with a chain he knew she would not fight against. He was telling her in subtitles, the things he can do and the mechanics he can well-plan to impose his power over her. And he was succeeding at first light.

"He's yours now, my lady," Ramsay spoke and Sansa stood even without his urging. She walked to Ramsay and had him face to face. Without a clue, Ramsay continued, "You can do to him as you ple—"

She slapped him.

The strike from palm to cheek cracked the air like a firework.

She slapped him again with the other cheek before anyone can make a move.

The silence was incredulous that one can hear a pin that fell to the floor. All eyes were wide except hers. She stared at him coldly as a tear broke out from an eye. Her face was hard and austere, and even Reek has never seen this side of Sansa. Every feet was dug to the floor and every mouth was left agape, and every movement was choked like they were hardened in ice. She had become a ghost in their midst. She had probably grown an extra head or birthed a snake or sprouted wings by the way they stared at her. They all looked stupid in her sight.

Ramsay's eyes ignited fire and his face fondled shock while raising his hand to cover the jaw that had reddened.

Sansa turned to her heels and without lifting her skirt, she spun off with apathetic disgrace as all eyes stared at her exit.


	8. 7 SANSA

_I do not know where you're running to_

 _I'm your finish line, I'm the one for you_

 _If you do me wrong, if I'm cruel to you_

 _You're a fool for me, I'm a fool for you._

 _~warm_

* * *

BLUE eyes sleepily opened at the rapping on the window. The breeze has been as unruly as her hair.

She allowed herself a few more sloth blinks before rethinking the events that led her to her bed without changing into her sleeping robes. The rims of her eyes were heavy and sore. She had slept with cheeks soaked in tears and was grateful for the dreamless night. Thankful of not seeing Mother looking down on her stroking her brow, or Father kissing her on the forehead. Thankful for the abyss that engulfed her even for only a very short while. And she wished to have stayed there forever, to see Mother and Father and Robb, Bran, Rickon, or even Arya if she was as unlucky as she is, still roaming about this cruel world.

She missed them. She missed them terribly but the thought has not filled her eyes with tears as perhaps her tearducts have already dried up.

Last night her heart turned to ashes and pure hatred has callused her body to the bone. She did not know what happened after she left them dryly gaping and open-mouthed, all she knew was that Ramsay's 'boys' led away as she passed by them to lock herself in her chamber. But she swore she heard riotous cursing and breaking before slumber had closed her eyes. She did not mind them. Hell be to Ramsay, hell to the Boltons and the Freys and all those worms that watched her, and hell to Theo—Reek.

 _Why_?

She stared at the nothingness before her. Why does that wretched creature breathe while her family's candles burned out?

The door to her chamber creaked open and in came a small serving girl with a short blonde hair which almost reminded Sansa of her sister. Coming in with a wooden tray of pastry and venison from last night's feast, the girl laid the parcels on a table and moved to the door. Sansa halted her.

"Draw me a bath."

The girl, even without looking, nodded and left.

* * *

The bathing room was illuminated with torches and Sansa slid out of the scarlet gown that adorned her since last night. She felt the girl's eyes draping over her nakedness and she didn't mind. _You'll have a chance at growing yet_ , she thought as if the girl was listening to her, _and men will run to you open-mouthed at your breast and their useless snakes aimed between your legs and you will wish you've never grown._

One of her feet fed the water, and then the other, and she bent to lay herself on the wooden tub. She rested her back on the edge and allowed the girl to loose the clips behind her ears.

As the girl went about her work, Sansa scooped water with her palms and led it to her face, allowing it to drench the cheeks that were hardened with tears. When the water eased away she stared steadily at her palms and recalled how it had made such a scandal the night before. She remembered the look of that bastard who has brought back the nightmares that lurked under her heels. His eyes were aghast and distraught and she nursed no remorse at the humiliation she plagued him.

To wit, she was considering why she has still woken up after striking the face of the Warden of the North's heir. She decided having the Maester spread the news to each fort in the north, and it sent her half-smiling.

Sansa felt the tug on her hair and she laid her head to have the girl pour the warmth of the water from scalp to tip. There was no other sound in the room but the dripping of water and she was too immersed in plain nothingness but rather enjoyed the time with herself.

When the girl tugged something from her neck, she recognized having a lace made out of straw with its pendant hanging between her breasts.

Sansa took the stone with a hand and stared at its poisonous glory once more, turning it slowly and watching how the light was able to pull the purple and gold flecks in a twisted pallet. Hey eyes lighted at the cognizance of its owner, those strange eyes and flaxen hair almost reminded her of Sir Loras. He had a kind face, this Arym, and handsome too. But she flinched a second she saw in her memory Joffrey, that beautiful boy wrapped in vile snakeskin who repaid her love with her father's head, and her mood swung easily.

"Put this away," Sansa pulled the lace above her head and gave it to the serving girl, "under my pillow, please."

The maid was meek to oblige, kept the stone between her palms and with a bow, left the bathing room as Sansa watched her shadow cease past the door.

She sat still, cupping water with a palm and pouring the tepid liquid on her bent knees. It felt like childhood again, the childhood she wished was happening somewhere sometime in a dissimilar dimension.

The footsteps came back and she hadn't ceased playing. She can hear the movements behind her: the wooden stool pulled closer to her head and the bathing rag dipped in a basin. She felt the damp cloth press on her shoulder and slid slowly to her arm.

It was quite strange, the movement, the stillness, the silence. None of these she felt just fractions ago.

And so it happened, her blood turned cold at the touch of the hand on her skin. It might have been gentle, but it felt like nettles that turned her heart to dust. She need not turn to know who it was. The deep restrained breathing and callused fingers screamed his name on her gooseprickles.

"Don't. Touch. Me," Sansa spoke between gritted teeth, not willing herself to face the intruder. Slowly she gathered her knees to cover her chest, spleen immediately dragged across her body. She felt vulnerable by the nakedness that acted like a lure to salivating vultures.

She felt him smile. But did not heed her words as he again slid the damp cloth on her back. It felt ugly. It felt like a thousand maggots creeping in and out of her pores.

"Why? You have to get used to it," Ramsay's voice loomed, smooth like butter coated on a hunting knife.

"Why are you here?"

"You owe me an apology."

Every bell on her ear rung with riot.

"You disgust me," her lips were bitter to the bone, "having been keeping Theon all along,"

"It's Reek. You didn't like your gift,"

"You call that a gift?"

"Don't play coy with me Sansa, you would've done the same if it were you on my stead,"

"If you were me, he would have been dead,"

"Where's the fun in that? In the end he'd only be a ghost to your pain and grieving,"

 _Tsss._ Sansa breathed out what was supposed to be laughter, "Are you really going to make me believe...that you mutilated him to avenge my family?"

She felt him pause. Almost succumbing to defeat.

"You truly are many things, Sansa," Ramsay mused, pulling the cloth from her shoulder and resting his elbows on parted knees, "and politeness, not one of them. But well..."

He lifted a finger on her nape, and slowly tracing the dampness towards her shoulder. "I am an understanding man. And understanding men I guess, are the most difficult to satiate."

Sansa was one to hold her breath. She grasped that a man like Ramsay, grown with a cold-blooded father and no mother in sight, would have taken comfort women behind locked doors. It was a hideous thought, but she felt heat invade her cheeks at the minute touch of his finger. And the way he stared, yes, it spurred nausea but cradled a hidden desire of submission to his thirst. She swallowed, head inclined, eyes unmoved and face nonchalant.

"You do not know me, bastard."

He flinched at her last word. "I'd imagine you haven't said that."

"What, 'bastard'?" Sansa asked, summoning the courage to face blue eyes that bore a thousand weights, "I'm sorry. That was unspoken for. My mother once told me to address people as to who they really are."

"And now your mother rots in a river somewhere,"

Sansa's blood churned, and so did his. Tears moistened her vision, and wrath burned on his.

"My father drove that dagger through your brother's heart, not I," said Ramsay, narrowing his eyes which almost painted hurt. "Henceforth you stop treating me like I held that hilt."

When a tear spilled from her eye and her lips quivered, he stared on; even in tears she was so beautiful it held such queer fascination for him that left his face intrigued. There and then she crumpled and broke in soft sobs, concealing her face with fisted hands. _Curse you, Sansa. Wolves do not weep. Stop it. Stop it._

She sniffed like the girl she was but in an exhale, she was a wolf again. "Leave."

He was still, and she could feel his eyes crawling all over her, and what was new with that? There was confidence growing on her that need not to be afraid, need not to shrink at the mere blunders of men.

"Was it that bad?"

Sansa found him gaping at her legs which unveiled the brownish patches almost resembling scars. There was neither concern nor pity hinted from his voice, just inquest and plain curiosity.

Moistened, the scars have become visible souvenirs from ser Meryn's sword, with Joffrey's signature sprawled on them. That was day the boy king had her beaten solely because her brother stirred war and kept his uncle, the golden Knight, chained in muck.

And she forged that Ramsay was right, being treated with indifference because he was her brother's killer's son is indeed agonizing. But still... _but still..._

"Those are nothing,"

"Those are scars."

"No, those are fish scales. I am a mermaid," she covered her legs tediously, "I know what they are, and now they're nothing."

"Baelish said you've been through enough. Was it that bad?"

Slowly, she faced him with an icy stare.

"Two years ago I saw my father executed and his head mounted on a spike. When my brother answered with rebellion, I was stripped and beaten to the bone. When Joffrey Baratheon casted me off, I was wed to the imp. On my fifteenth name day, my mother's throat was slit and my brother's neck was sewn with his wolf's head. My brothers were burned and my home was sacked. The queen wants my head for the murder of her son, and when I sought my aunt for refuge, she forced me on the edge of that moon door to die."

She looked away. "No, Ramsay, it wasn't at all that bad."

Expecting him to leave, Sansa capped her face with wet palms. But her muscles contracted when the damp cloth touched her again, already cold as it brushed her back, but almost delicate. And it was so queasy that she was close to welcoming it, and welcoming it tightened the knots on her stomach. She stayed still, secretly relishing the pretentious chivalry.

It won't last, she thought; the sweetest things always had the littlest time. Perhaps later there'll be blood soaked on that cloth. He's here to punish me, she fed herself, like Joffrey does, but not with knights in white cloaks who were mechanical to commands. Ramsay does his own dirty work, and he was a maniac with daggers.

"I flayed a woman once,"

Is that a threat, bastard? Sansa meant to silence her tongue. She was not yet ready to lose it. But a little interest sparked on the glint of gloom that came from his throat.

"First body I skinned. Wouldn't say it was a corpse yet, it was breathing when I did it." Ramsay went on, dipped the cloth and swayed it on the surface of her freckled arm.

Her curiosity peaked even higher but maintained her calm.

"But I've seen her before she was skinned, that was a lot of times."

"What has she done to deserve your...'mercy'?"

It took time before he answered. "Your 'fish scales' reminded me of her. She had full of them."

"What has she done?"

"I could not remember, Sansa. It does not interest me to know either,"

When his voice elevated, she decided to quit the querying. Ramsay was a man of hot cinders; it was unwise to court his anger at the moment when she was as naked as her first breath. But she knew he was lying and he knew that she knew as well. She knew he can sing the details of how that grotesquery happened, but he was fully-armored with denial.

Her lips have betrayed her, though. "How frightened are you, Ramsay?"

She almost yanked her tongue.

"What?" said Ramsay, stilling the cloth on her skin.

"She frightens you, is that it? She still does."

He scoffed, "I've flayed more men than you could imagine, bigger than I, highborn and baseborn was no difference, and I could still sleep as peaceful as a shrouded cadaver."

"Perhaps," she moved her face so its side faced him, her eye captured the picture of him losing the color on his face. "But it was her that you remember most, is it? Men, you say, yes. And women? How many have you flayed thereafter?"

This time her face fully saw him and she studied his rough hair black as night, ruffled and uncared as the stubble on his cheeks and chin. He wore a black undershirt unlaced at the collar and sleeves folded to his elbow, and dark breeches but none of the swordbelt, its low edges fastened underneath his dark but lightweight leather boots.

She saw the red creases on his knuckles: angry, sweltered, and freshly-made wounds by brick and metal. Now she knew where last night's chaos ensued,and it confused her between feeling guilt or joy, or horror that it might be her blood smeared on them next. But it was the paleness of his face that most astonished her, and she grazed him through the shock in his glacier eyes: a broken boy, this bastard of Bolton, broken and taped together but the cracks still screaming and colored.

And altogether, even in his ashen look, she found him quite charismatic.

"It's alright, Ramsay," she lowered her lashes, "Flay even a hundred giants as you please but doing those massacres will never put that woman in her tomb."

That woman. _A lover, perhaps?_

He breathed out long, before dropping the cloth on the basin and forcing himself half a smile. Ramsay picked himself up and cracked his neck, "This conversation has too much clichés. I'm afraid it has begun to bore me." He turned to the door, "But seeing you like this was worth cheering the morning, I've wanted to join you, but we need more hunting for the feast. I can still wait until tonight."

His last word was too algid as his smile and it almost stripped her insides off. _Tonight_. It would be her in the godswood tonight, with him too, saying empty vows in front of woodworms. How she wanted to stuff her mouth with the bathing cloth and drown herself instead!

"Ramsay," she blurted.

He stopped midway to twist his head.

"...will you kill me after I outdid my purpose, Ramsay?"

Her voice was too flat and emotionless it almost painted everything gray. Ramsay was unstirred. Sansa listened on to the deafening silence which was all the while lost at his last few words before voiding the bricked bathing chamber.

"I only do what lord father tells me. Most of the time, unwillingly," he was almost cruel with his tone, which turned out calmer as it ceased, "And wedding you, his only command I was happiest doing. No, Sansa," he glanced at her one more time with eyes a contrast of cold and scalding, "I will not."


	9. 8 ROOSE

_Upon her lips, a thousand lies were spread in sweet gloss._  
 _Her kiss was like a storybook from ancient history._

 _~rp_

* * *

THE night was warm instead.

His pallid eyes stared on at the leaves of the godswood: red and shimmering with the melted snow. It looked exotic and fiery like a midnight candle in the shadows. This weirwood is quite smaller and less lush, he calculated, the weirdwood back in Dreadfort looms half twice this one but thicker, gruelling, and surly; firmly standing in the deep middle of the forest that frames their menacing castle.

A figure nudged beside him. Ramsay. His bastard gave him a wan look before bowing, "Father."

Roose Bolton gazed at his son, and still, the boiling on his blood ensued though not as quite as years before. He was not looking at his son for now, he was looking at the murderer of his heir. Domeric Bolton was his pride, his trueborn who only loved to read and ride horses and whom Roose wanted to protect against the practices in Dreadfort's torture chambers. But when his boy crumpled with fever and bleeding in the gut, he instantly knew who should be blamed. And that dawn when Domeric died, Roose stormed into the Bastard's chamber, and without delay, strike the bastard's face again and again until his knuckles were sore and smeared with blood.

But it was, of course, futile to flay the slayer. Ramsay was close to Domeric in age, and in Roose's advanced years, it would take a millennium to breed another trueborn. So resentfully he took to his side Ramsay Snow to continue raising as his own but harsh as opposite as his care for Domeric.

Yet there was something in Ramsay that he needed to mend as well although he knew he can't. When the boy looks at him he still sees the hateful eyes back when he was a child: small and gaunt and trembling with tears as he first held that flaying knife with scrawny fingers.

And he was aware, too, that succeeding the Bolton's name and giving Sansa Stark would not suffice the angst that Ramsay has grown used to.

He hates me, Roose thought, he still hates me. He will die hating me.

So he decided that tonight he will be proud of his son at least on his wedding. He smiled and held Ramsay by the shoulder and with it poured his delight that he was to be married and to fulfil his duty as the heir of the Warden of the North.

Tonight his son looked regal, fully dressed in black leather overcoat that ran down to his knees, a longsleeved crimson undershirt within. In his collar was fastened the brooch of Dreadfort. His high boots were well shined as his hair, and Roose was almost looking at his younger self, except that his eyes were grey and Ramsay's were an electrifying blue. "A grown man, indeed. Aye, you will be a stronghold of our house."

He felt his son stun at his complements but was good at hiding it. "I will uphold our honor, Father. Our banners will be flaunted to the edges of the realm."

Everyone was there now. His wife Walda stood beside Maester Wolkan, probably almost starving as she is believed to be pregnant, but Roose was careful not to be sure yet. He looked around to see faces from the garrison he reared, the same faces that attended last night's agenda. The same faces that saw how Sansa humiliated Ramsay. The same faces that withheld Ramsay from burning the castle afterwards, ranting and screaming and breaking all he could, the walls at least. And Roose stared on, apathetic. He knew that bastard deserved it all. He liked Ramsay deserving it all.

"My Lord, it's taking quite a while, don't you think?"

Maester Wolkan was beside him. Roose looked towards the lane that was lamp-lighted where the bride was supposed to float over and be given away.

"She will come."

Both turned to Ramsay, both unaware that he smelled their worry. The groom was looking on the lane, his eyes beginning to grimace.

"I hope your talk this morning turned out well," said Roose. Ramsay tensed.

"You disgraced yourself at dinner, remember that, parading that creature in front of the lady,"

"We sorted it out," Ramsay snapped.

"And the kennel girl?"

"Forget her."

Father plainly nodded. They waited on. Some of the lamps on the lane begun to flicker and die for the wind has sped up. The women were beginning to tighten their black capes. Still nothing.

Beside him, Ramsay moved to look behind. Roose followed his stare and it fell upon a flaxen-haired soldier standing behind an amused Myranda. That soldier is an archer, he recognized, one of the skilled and indispensible men. The archer looked at them too, handsome purplish eyes staring like an untold story. Ramsay nerved and turned away.

"My Lord, she should be here," Maester Wolkan repeated. Ramsay fell silent as an owl.

Roose raised a finger to call for the Smalljon.

Umber stepped forward and as soon as Roose finished speaking in a hushed tone, he began to enter the lane, his boot prints messing the snow that glittered in the lamp lights.

But before he went halfway, a shadow appeared from the entrance to their wedding place. Roose would have gladly taken it for Sansa Stark in her white wolf pelt and silver gown. But hope died when it was a small serving girl coming with dread passionate on her face. She went past Smalljon and straight to the groom.

Roose's hand fell on his sword hilt as the serving girl fell to her knees, trembling.

"My Lord...L-lady Sansa...she's gone."

* * *

Metal and boot sounds slashed the silenced along the hallways up to the winding stairs to Sansa Stark's chamber.

Roose Bolton almost panted, disbelief carved in his face. He looked around the room for himself. The three-pronged candle holder on the table still burned above an untouched flagon of warmed wine. The smell of perfume still lingered in the air, the windows were closed, and the cinders on the fireplace still breathed before a wolf-pelt rag.

Ramsay went in with the serving girl and Father saw the tepid look on his blue eyes. How could he be calm? Their key to netting the North has gone astray their grip.

He watched the abandoned groom, still stately in his wedding guise, stare at the beauty lain on the bed. Ramsay neared the silver gown neatly resting on the mattress and his fingers slowly swept across the silk. It glittered under his skin, he picked it up and squeezed it below his closed eyes, inhaling calmly and moving the cloth across his face.

It gave a jolt of wonder to Roose to see him this way. When Sansa Stark slapped him in front of his men and step mother, Ramsay would have hit her back as what he does with the children who played with him. Now his bride has ran away and he was there, elated on the mere smell of the silks that she should have worn as if she was there and he was stripping it off her. No, his son was a vengeful soul. Ramsay's silence meant more.

Men flooded in the room and two weakly and beaten-up guards were thrown on the floor, hands tied behind them, their teeth and blood splattering the rags. The men, led by Umber, held them up wobbling on their knees. "Winterfell guards on the back gates. Said they haven't met anyone."

"Is this true?" Roose asked. Ramsay walked beside his father, the gown still in one of his hands.

"We swear, m-m-milord," one of the guards panted, his purpled lips quivered, there was an angry bulge on his brow which oozed blood, "None came...none go,"

"Where were you?" Ramsay was one to ask. There was silence as the two merely bowed their heads in fear and shock.

"Found drunk and sleepy," said Smalljon Umber. Ramsay slowly bent to squat and look at the two in the eye.

One of the guards with his beard caked in mud spoke in a gurgling sound, "I—I wasn't, milord, was p-pissing when they come,"

"Still drunk and sleepy. Bad choice to have Winterfell men guard that gate on my Wedding night," Ramsay commented, standing.

"But I—we swear milord, none came, none went. Y'can inspect the locks, milord, they's un—"

The man fell with a pained scream and a thud as Ramsay's boot smashed his face and remained there. Everyone in the room tensed.

With gritted teeth and blazing eyes he raised his boot and crushed in on the face again, and again, and again until an eye popped off its socket and the crack of skull was heard. Roose could not count the number of stamps flogged on the face because he looked away. When the man's brains spilt on the floor and soiled his boot, Ramsay stopped the tantrum with ragged breaths. Everyone felt the stab on his glare and they let him pass through towards the three-pronged candle and grabbed it with an angry fist.

"Ramsay..." Roose tried to soothe him. But when Ramsay was in the midst of paroxysm, there was no one calming him. Ramsay threw the live candles on the fireplace and along it, the blood-splattered silver gown. Roose was aghast at the waste. The cloth was a memorial gown, passed on from one bride to another of the generation to still the line and agreement of houses joined in the North.

Everyone watched as the silk caught the flames and started to smoulder.

Roose shook his head, "That was unnecessary, Ramsay, it is difficult to find one with the likes of it,"

"She will be married naked for all I care," Ramsay spat and turned to the men still appalled, "She wore that shit before she left, she had her scent on it and believe me someone came in to convince her." He moved past them towards the door, and Roose knew he was unstoppable.

"Milord," one of his boys interrupted, pointing to the other guard whose companion has just had his head quashed on the floor, his blood making a dark pool mixed with pieces of his shredded face.

Ramsay gave a half-grin, "My hounds will have a tedious search tonight, they would need a snack."

"Mercy, milord! Mercy!" the battered man began to wail helplessly as they dragged him but Ramsay was deaf.

"Have Reek ready my horse. And a flagon of wine please," his face was now in full-smirk, the flames reflected against his icy stare, "This evening has just gotten lovely, gentlemen."


	10. 9 BRIENNE

_So long, fresh breath of innocence_  
 _So long to the life we used to know_  
 _'Cause every time I close my eyes_  
 _I want to disappear with you_  
 _And I hope you want to disappear, too_

 _~M.E. Disappear_

* * *

A salmon pink glow stretched across the horizon, slicing between the ombre of dark blue and black sky. She had been awake all night, and all night had been too short of notice that she almost thought the sky was playing sport of her.

Brienne never left the bricked window since the half moon crept across the empty sky. She was tending the coals on the fireplace when Podrick called out to her in the blackness. And what she saw were the Winterfell gates opening and the dots of torchfires spreading out. She heard the echoes of hound growls and barks, and traced the shadows that vanished into the woods.

 _A hunt?_ Brienne's eyes narrowed to acquire a better view. What madness would drive men to hunt in the black? Something stirred within the walls, she was sure. Something hectic and demanding, and while Podrick curled on the rug, mumbling in his sleep affront the fire, she kept a heavy yet keen eye anticipating what lies ahead.

A few more blinks, she willed herself. She needed to see those men come back to the gates, but it vain. Dawn has greeted and not a single horse came galloping back. But their hooves were still audible, along with the angry but tired dogs.

When she convinced herself that her eyes would not serve its purpose without rest, she withdrew from the window and turned her back on it. Sleep has swayed on her doorstep. She needed to entertain it elsewise her lack of strength would court failure to bring Sansa Stark to safety.

She sat on the floor and leaned her back against the wall. Oathkeeper lay cold and still beside her. Its lion hilt aggressively reflecting the blisters of fire on the coals. As she stared back to the window, Brienne tried to close her eyes but something pried her slumber instead. A gray mist slowly crept towards the sky.

Slowly she stood, her joints thwarted from sleep, and positioned on the window again. The grey mist was not a dream. Exhaustion fled from her veins as she saw where the smoke sourced.

Fire rose from a keep in Winterfell. Brienne's eyes shot open.

"Podrick." She calmly called, calm but stiff. Podrick did not rouse. She saw the flames within the walls licking high, flicking from the windows, its cracking sound signalled doom, black smoke hovering the keep like a mistress.

And as the noise of panic began to swell within the castle, Brienne noticed a cleft on the outer wall open. Out came a tiny hooded figure led out by a shaggy, limping man. Brienne's heart thumped with sirens. She recognized the hooded figure and the sway of her skirt, the way she ran with panicked and hurried steps, the way her head looked both sideways as the limping man pulled her forward.

Brienne was filled with a silent warcry. _It was time_.

"Podrick!"

* * *

They raced through the snow-covered woodsoil and the crisscrossing of trees. Her teeth clenched as tight as her hold on the bridles. A swerve to the left to avoid a branch jutting low on the sentinel, a veer to the right, a quick jump over an old, fallen and mossy pine trunk. The brown courser swept like a river at Brienne's most alarming urging, its strong muscles pulled out to the greatest possible speed, grunting and neighing with its heavy gallops.

The forest wind was bare and harsh like nettles on her face, causing red blotches that burned in the crispy morning air. But she did no minding on how her body ached for rest, how her legs teemed with numbness, how her eyes pleaded shutting for even a heartbeat's length. She was exhausted and worn out like a farm cow on harvest day, if Jaime were there to describe it, braying like a donkey. But it didn't matter now. She had to summon all the strength even from her organs to get to her duty. _Sansa is escaping!_ And Brienne was her only rescue.

Podrick Payne was tailing behind her, awkwardly chasing her on a white mare, meanwhile slowing to duck from branches that looked like witches' fingers. Brienne had to shake him violently before putting off the coals and trailing down the stairs. He came immediately, still wiping his eye ducts, one half opened and the other filled with nightmarish shock. He had not the time to yawn.

She could hear barking dogs from a distance, but not coming after her. She slapped the bridle with a loud _hya!_

 _Come on, come on._ She almost bit her tongue on her own goading, eyes narrowing and jaws clenched tighter than sealing wax. They were near, she wasn't wrong. They were near to crossing paths with Sansa, her heart pounded against her breastplate with every meter closed on them. Her vision was zigzagging but she could now see them, closer, closer. She could see Sansa holding on to the hand of the shabby, limping man, with a huge grey hound snarling and snapping behind them.

Brienne's hand quickly pulled Oathkeeper's hilt as the other slowed the warhorse by the tug of its bridle. She was ready to force a scream and the blade poised to strike the hound but everything was eventually stuck in midair.

Her eyes remained open and Oathkeeper waited to be darted against the hound's neck. Suddenly her face crumpled.

Sansa and the man tripped on an undergrowth of fat wrestled roots and fell on the snowy grass. The dog angrily poised to attack, howling louder to call for the others. The limping man slowly stood to pull Sansa to her feet, but failed. Again they fell and what happened next almost toppled Brienne over.

Sansa Stark's trembling palm was outstretched to the hound with a considerable distance between them. It was still barking, its tail in an excited check and viciously wagging, but slowly its barks lessened. It walked quickly to the sides to Sansa as she gathered herself to stand, never taking her palm off it as it followed where the hound steps to. The dog would snarl and bare its teeth and would salivate, it would snap, but it ceased barking.

And Brienne saw how it began to whimper whilst its tail started to soften. Its teeth began to conceal and instead, the hound's face softened and started to lick its lips like a good beast.

"What are you doing?" asked the limping man, as astonished as Brienne is, and pulled Sansa's sleeve, "We must continue,"

Sansa's face showed a silent disbelief at what she has just done, lips parted. When the hound was as calm as a forest lake, she moved towards it still with her palm outstretched and eyes like a lullaby. And slowly, she tried to touch at least the snout of the beast that was pursuing her just seconds past.

But when fingers and snout was only a hairline apart, an arrow yanked the hound's head away and socked it on the snow-blessed ground. Blood and brains splattered with a quick whimper and Sansa's small shriek.

Brienne jolted from her station to face a hooded archer who stooped as swift as she is. Quick as lightning they were ready to ignite war but Sansa was shrewder, "Stop!"

They froze with breaths caught on their throats. The archer was crouched on a knee, aiming an arrow on Brienne's neck, as she was almost bent to slice clean his head. Podrick and the limping man that was with Sansa watched ineptly at the sudden turn of events.

Sansa Stark looked up at Brienne with all the rushed delight in the world. She was silent and heavily breathing, but thankful with moistened eyes. Thankful and grateful, and also ashamed to have to admit that Brienne, after all, was the better choice between her and Petyr's roads. She looked at her as if she was the answer to her fervent prayers, her knight in shining armor turned out to be the lady of Tarth. She lowered her sword.

The archer was well to recognize that she was not a foe, and at Sansa's touch of the arrow's shaft, he, too, retreated the weapon and revealed his face behind the hood. "Who are you?"

Sansa was one to answer, blushing. "Arym, she's a friend…sword sworn to my mother..."

Brienne did not show an apologetic face as she descended from her horse. Podrick Payne did too. She felt a stinging on her lower cheek, and when she touched it, blood marked her fingers. She must have cut herself among the twisted branches during the scurrying chase. This Arym was greeting her with scrutiny in his purplish eyes, still uneasy on how someone would mysteriously juggle lemons on a rescue mission. She would have mistaken him for Ser Loras, from the same flaxen hair and handsome stance.

"You're a Bolton puppet," Brienne met his inspection, still with Oathkeeper tight between her fingers. She looked at the sigil of Dreadfort on Arym's boiled leather breastplate, and back to his inquisitive eyes.

Arym threw a gaze at Sansa, which she shook her head to, promising the archer that there was no need to settle themselves at the comforts of each other's company. They only have one purpose, though. Arym instead craned his neck behind them and back to Sansa.

"They're quite far," he sighed, almost in relief, "Must've sighted something stranger,"

"What happened? Winterfell is burning," cut Brienne.

Sansa shook her head, "N-not all,"

"You did that?"

All turned to Podrick. He turned into red beets when attention spun to him in a jiffy.

"I-I had to, I was to be…" she couldn't speak it well, instead she looked away.

"She was to be married," Arym caught the conversation, "To the Bolton heir. We hid her, I and…him," he pointed at the unruly man who shied down and muttered to himself, "On the crypts, waited for all to go lose their minds and lose themselves out the gates to search."

"And you're one of them, are you?" Brienne asked surly, discomfort peeled through at the thought of betrayal. Her hold on the sword tightened.

Arym held her stony gaze, "I am. I was. And you weren't there to know what truly took place,"

"Your honor is bleak," said Brienne, eyes narrowing.

"Brienne," Sansa interrupted, "There is no time for this, I can recall all when we get to Castle Black where my half-brother is Lord Commander,"

"Please,"

The shabby man said weakly, still looking down. "We need to go. Lord Ramsay, he must be close."

Exchanging looks, they began to stir.

"Go with them, Sansa," Arym urged, "Have to go back, lest they might notice my absence. I will still keep eye on you , and distract others. Go."

Sansa reached out to Arym's arm and he turned. Brienne knows when a man was weakened by a lady's touch.

"Thank you," Sansa whispered, wrapping her arms around Arym's neck, and as she let go, handed a black pendant to him.

He smiled, "Almost forgot. Remember me, in case I couldn't meet you by the river," were his last few words before disappearing between and shaking the snow off the branches. Brienne swore she saw him look behind his shoulder for the last time before completely abandoning them. It almost reminded her of how she tried to steal glances at King Renly during the melee on his wedding night.

"Do you know the way out of here, my Lady?" Brienne asked, following Sansa as she heads toward the battered and shy man. She turned to him for the answer, "Y-you know this, Theon?"

Theon gave a fearful nod. Brienne began to bother herself at the company that Sansa was keeping. One, a turncloak, and another a grimy, limping, dishevelled man whose hair and beard were evident of inattention.

* * *

They have been striding for an hour and yet the woods were too wide of the scope. Theon had warned them not to move too fast as the hounds may twitch ears and smell the perfume of fear and panic, and not too slow as they may be too exposed despite the canopy that shields them and Arym who misleads the search party.

Podrick found a crag behind a wall of fallen timber atop a hill. It looked safe and well-concealed. A deep stream gurgled a distance below the crag, the same stream that wet their feet as they crossed. Its gurgles were enough to mask unnecessary noise they might stir. The crag was hallow enough for all four of them. Spider webs adorned the rock walls and the smell of fern and moist soil clung to their noises. One can easily see a hunter hovering over the stream below.

They met it with the interest of warming their frozen fingers even for a very short while. Brienne stooped beside Sansa who was breathing against her palms after rubbing them together. The girl was as depraved of sleep as she was, the rims of her eyes were red and heavy, her face was lush of anxiety.

"Are you alright, my Lady?" Brienned asked. Sansa plainly looked at her but words were not on her lips. "What?"

Brienne found it futile to dig into the events that led Sansa Stark fleeing. She was to be wed the night before, as Arym claims, convinced of an escape, kept in the crypts for long hours at night as her groom set out to comb the forest of her presence, and taken out of the walls at the break of dawn. And then she recalled the deed that Sansa executed at the hound. Could she possibly have done that?

"What did you do to it, that dog?" Brienne asked again.

Sansa stared at her long before she shook her head and tightened her heavy capes. It was not a cape of a lady, Brienne saw, perhaps to thwart the scent she has.

"I...uh, I don't...nothing." stammered Sansa.

"Don't deny. I saw it coming right after you, and you seemed to...tame it,"

Sansa pursed her lips and brought out the hand, the same hand that held out to the hound. She took off the glove that warmed it, and stared at her pink-tipped fingers. "I swear...I do not know, I just...it seemed like I...I talked to it...I..." she held a breath and sighed as she covered the hand again, "I do not know,"

Brienne simply nodded, getting the point that either Sansa was being modest or she must be keeping a secret. She knew of that power, a magic that rooted from the creatures that lurked far beyond the wall. She heard stories of shapeshifters and wa—no. Sansa could not be one. But she could be, too. Her brother, Robb the Young Wolf, was rumoured to have crushed Jamie's garrison with an army of wargs, and he himself have shapeshifted to a direwolf. She does not believe the story, but she believes in the existence and the possibility of them.

"You must be one of 'em," Podrick Payne's innocent yapping coursed through the dialogue, "I know it. That _thing_ , that wildings do when they put 'emselfs in a bird to see high up the fog, or in beasts to bite off a giant, or—"

"Podrick Payne, look out and scout for nearby searchers will you?" Brienne shot him a look. If it were daggers, Podrick would have been pinned. Immediately he zipped his mouth and swallowed as he shrugged shoulders and started standing on wobbly knees.

"Where's Theon?" Sansa asked, brushing off the theories. Their eyes searched on, until the barking of dogs again emerged in the air. It sounded far, and excited.

Theon appeared, stress painted on his eyes.

"What's that?" Sansa asked fearfully, color draining from her face. "Theon?"

Brienne's hand held Oathkeeper's lion hilt again and stood together with Sansa. Slowly she started to move out the crag.

"Don't," Theon held Sansa's elbow. Her brows creased, and was finally convinced it was something tragic indeed. She shoved Theon's hand and stepped on a smaller rock to poke her hooded head out and see what commotion had distracted the men. Brienne saw the worry that provoked Theon's face, and decided to look out as well.

Quickly Sansa muffled a cry as she started to come off their hiding place. Theon and Podrick pulled her back in. They only hoped none of the men had noticed the sudden movement. Distress held onto Sansa's shoulders as she struggled against Theon's hold.

"Keep still!" Podrick was intent to calm her. Tears hotly poured from her eyes, she was letting out a voiceless wail with both hands on her temples.

"What was it?" Brienne spat at Theon in a whisper, she was wise not to look out, not yet. They needed to soothe Sansa first.

Theon was hesitant to speak. But when Brienne almost threatened him with her look, he finally spilled it out.

"Rickon..." he swallowed, "Rickon...Stark."

 _Impossible._ Brienne's eyes flew open, "The Stark boys were murdered,"

There was a flash of shame that lighted Theon. He began to shake his head.

Sansa's fingers jutted out and clung to Brienne's shoulders, shaking her. "Please, don't let them take him, please," she was unable to keep her whispers and her trembling voice started to break into sobs. "They will kill him, if they can't find me they will kill him,"

"They're too many," Podrick added to the disappointment as he looked at Brienne, "You can't take them all, they're almost leaving,"

"Were they found here, Theon?" asked Brienne.

Theon shook his head, "They were handed, by the Umber..."

Sansa rocked forward and back with her arms around her knees, "They will kill him..."

Brienne decided to look for herself, head low as she poked it enough that her eyes may spy. What she saw, between the ferns and wild leaves beside the stream, were six men in capes and boiled leathers. Two were Bolton men, holding on to the ropes that controlled the barking dogs, and four were on horses, their backs facing them already, about to be veiled by the snowy branches. One of the brusque men were putting back the sacks on the heads of two people: one a child, and the other...probably a woman by the traced nipples on her chest. Their hands were bound behind them, and their clothes showed the days of running and hiding, masked with dirt and mud and torn at the edges.

They had a considerable distance and quite impossible to be figured out behind the crag, as the dogs were too preoccupied with the new catch, and the men already weary of the cold and sleepless search.

"...is enough..."

"...bloody hungry an' for nuth'n..."

"...some distraction..."

She kept her ears on the faintest words she could comprehend, and she was too concentrated on them that a hound had barked at her direction. Brienne swiftly pulled back, almost wanting to smack herself for being too stupid.

Podrick watched her in horror, holding Sansa by the shoulders, and Theon calmly pressed his back against the rock wall, wiping the spider webs with his rags. Their breaths were stiff and weighty, with Brienne's fingers tightening Oathkeeper's hilt. Only their eyes had the authority to move.

They could hear grasses and twigs breaking. And the man crossing the stream.

 _Don't..._ Brienne shut her eyes and bit her cracked lower lip. _Don't..._

The world must have stopped in those split seconds. It slowed, and a ringing on the ears numbed her. She could almost smell the sour sweat of the Bolton man climbing towards the crag, bending the ferns on the way. He slipped and cursed.

"...mus be a bloody rabbit, you fool." A distant voice yapped.

Exhales emanated while the noise retraced slowly. Brienne's fingers loosed.

They decided to wait a little longer to make sure none of the captors lingered nearby. And when it was safe, Brienne tried to pull Sansa to her feet. The Stark girl muttered.

"My lady?"

"I should go back..." said Sansa in a small voice.

Had the realm fell on them? They stared at her, all wanting to believe they've heard her wrong. But she was as grim as a graveyard and no jest was traced on her eyes.

"Y-you can't..." Theon's voice shook.

Sansa looked at him, "They'll kill him, Theon...this time...there won't be farm boys to replace."

Theon transformed to stone as shame rained on him. Sansa turned to Brienne, who shook her head with a want to convince her that her idea was foolish. "My lady, let us escort you to Castle Black, and then we can plan your brother's rescue,"

"The Night's Watch takes no part in wars of the realm..." Sansa's face crumpled again, threatening to break down, "I will not sit there in safety while my brother is kept in the kennels, I will not eat mead while he sucks on bones. I will not wait for a raven to send a threat, or a part of his body..." she wiped her eye, her throat hallowed, "...he's just a boy...our baby boy...he can't..."

Brienne locked Sansa in her arms as the girl let out frustrated sobs. All the planning, all the risk that had been done to claw her away from her wedding night will be wasted. They need to stretch whatever time they have in this hide-and-seek as it is near to impossible that Sansa will have to endanger Rickon Stark. She is the boy's mother now, as Catelyn would have wanted it to be. And it was a part of her oath to keep them in a benign place.

"How do we do it, my Lady? Will you admit your escape?" She felt Theon shudder.

Sansa let go of Brienne, wiping her eyes and straightening her gait. She shook her head. "Hit me unconscious."

Every muscle in Brienne's body protested. Even Podrick and Theon gazed at her, open-mouthed.

"You're mad," Brienne griped, stepping away.

"You have to, Brienne, you have to!" Sansa pleaded, pulling Brienne's cape, "I'd tell them I was hostaged. By...by men I didn't know. They drugged me in my chamber, put a sack over my head and took me. And I awoke in a wagon, buried in sacks of wool, and as we were pursued I jumped off, hit my head and...and..." she trailed off, unable to process further her make-believe.

"I will not do it," Brienne grit her teeth.

"You swore," Sansa bid, fire starting to light her cold blue eyes, "You swore you would do all I command, you swore to my mother..."

Brienne shook her head, unconvinced and condescending. She still couldn't look at Sansa but the girl forced to face her.

"You swore to the old gods and the new," Sansa firmed, "You gave your word, your sword, you made an oath, Brienne of Tarth, in your honor,"

Everyone awkwardly gaped at her, doing their best to see the point of her plan. But she was too frantic it almost boiled Brienne down.

"Are you sure you want this, my Lady?" Brienne asked begrudgingly.

Sansa stared in midair before nodding, "It's...the only...way..." she sniffed and looked down.

Brienne sighed between gritted teeth. She circled them once with her mind in deep meditation. This escape has turned out gruelling as expected, but not as demanding as this. Oh if only Catelyn was with her, as to know whether it was wise to let go again the prize that was already in her grip. Sweat formed on her hairline despite the stinging cold.

"As you wish, Sansa," the name was sour on her agitated lips. Brienne firmed herself by not calling Sansa a lady, by not consenting to Sansa as a lady, but as a younger woman who need not to fail an important task. "But we will be watching the walls. Plan as you wish, pray fervently, and when you and your brother are ready, light a candle on the window of the broken tower and I will rescue you."

Sansa's wet face lighted.

"Do you understand, my lady?" Brienne asked like a man she wanted to be.

Sansa nodded. Brienne neared her until they were only a foot away, she curled her gloved fingers and her face started to flush. Podrick's eyes went wide like saucers.

"We'll leave you on the best possible place you can be found, and lead them to you," Brienne's mouth tightened when Sansa nodded again.

"Please forgive me, my lady," Brienne frowned passionately and sighed, "Expect an ache when you wake up..."

Sansa suppressed a breath.

Brienne swung her fist, hard as stone as it landed on a delicate cheek.

* * *

 **A/N** : Hi there, dear readers and reviewers. I was quite delayed with this chapter, and for that I'm very sorry. Things have begun to get complicated here (I'm an instructor by the way, so, it's kind of tedious) but I swear (by the old gods and the new) to keep updating as soon as I can. And to compensate, made this chapter quite longer, the longest so far. I hope you don't mind. I wasn't quite sure with this chapter, though, didn't know if I was going on the right path. Still, thank you for your support. And by the way, I'm searching for songs to set the mood while I write, I got this fetish on being set into the mood by a certain music/song, and some have been by The Neighborhood. IF you can suggest, it would be for the better. Thank you!

Valar Dohearis, Valar Morghulis

 _Athenares_


	11. 10 MYRANDA

_When love is at its fight, it's never good enough._

 _~tn. warm_

* * *

Sansa Stark was found in the morning; the hounds have smelt her limp and unconscious by the icy river. They've set the beasts raving on her as a punishment, and Myranda's hold on the clay basin tightened with excitement to see Sansa's face marred with their teeth. She was smiling to herself, the heels of her boots vibrated on the narrow winding path to Sansa's chamber. _Let me see that pretty face no more, little wolf. Let me see._

Her smile fell when she reached the chamber door unlocked. The gap between the door and its post said that someone had been there before her. And no one would have crept out to Sansa Stark's room than that of her betrothed. Myranda felt her blood curdle.

She pushed the door open and instead found no Ramsay in it. It was his father, Lord Roose Bolton, sitting on the edge of Sansa Stark's bed while she sat with her back leaning on a high pillow against the bed post. Both looked at her and Myranda couldn't hide her frown when she set her eyes upon her rival.

The stories weren't true. Her face was not mauled at all. It remained an ill-sweet sight except for a reddish-purple bruise on her right cheek and a small cut on the corner of her lower lip. Yet she was still as lovely as sunrise and Myranda couldn't help the jealousy brooding into her own face; her nostrils flared even at the thought of it.

They were still looking at her, with Lord Bolton's eyes waiting for a remark on what on seven hells was Myranda doing there.

"I'm here to attend to Lady Sansa, milord," she sighed, almost begrudgingly. The sole reason she volunteered was only to mock the Lady of Winterfell whose face was said to be broken by the hounds. _Those little shits of a rumour_ , she thought, _why would they have to exaggerate a single bruise?_ "The master said she was fevered, I've brought warm water to dab away the heat on her skin,"

Roose Bolton looked at Myranda from her face to the hem of her dress, his eyes speculative and silently disparaging. Myranda grew knowing the scorn that Roose had for her, for being such dire influence on the son he was raising to be his heir. But she did not care. What mattered was that Ramsay was satisfied with her, hunted women nuisance to her, and fucked her. That was all the game.

The Warden of the North inhaled before turning back to Sansa. She covered her right shoulder with a hand.

"Are you certain you can't remember anything else before and after that, my Lady?"

Sansa took a glimpse at Myranda first, before turning back to Roose. "Uh," she swallowed, "None, my Lord. I told you earlier I was unconscious before they took me out of the chamber."

Roose stared at her, eyes a muddle of qualm and assurance. He put a rough hand atop the other on his lap, and calmly nodded, the tip of his lip curled into a smile. Sansa was playing with her fingers and it all sent Myranda rolling her eyes instead. He stood, the small chains on his suit softly rattled as his gait straightened. "Rest then, Lady Stark. You will need it more than ever. Let Myranda take care of anything you need."

She flinched with hatred. Why bother taking care of a helpless damsel when she could creep into Ramsay's chamber and serve him all night instead. Perhaps she could just poison the lady. She almost laughed at the thought.

Roose turned his heels, but Sansa's voice crept up. Even Myranda's attention was hooked in.

"When I was asleep..." the lady started meek and weakly. "I actually heard my brother's voice calling to me." The edges of her eyes moistened and made them glitter. Roose Bolton halted and plainly looked at her without sentiments. She continued with a hallowing throat, "I hope it was not a dream..."

Roose looked away, and in a split second answered, "It was a dream, my Lady. Rest now."

Myranda saw the antagonism flare on Sansa's eyes as she bit her lower lip while watching Roose Bolton exit the chamber. The Warden passed by Myranda and she gave a sham curtsy. She pushed the door upon the knowledge that it was only the two of them that ruled the walls.

Myranda took the basin and jar and walked resentfully towards Sansa who was beginning to feel the discomfort.

"I'm sorry to have to come at such a tiring hour, milady, the trauma you went through must be exhausting," she smiled while placing the items on a wooden table beside the bed, keeping her voice smooth and benign as possible despite the urge to flay Sansa herself. She poured the tepid water from jar to clay basin. The she-wolf remained quiet.

Water droplets filled the awkward silence between them as Myranda soaked and squeezed the grey wool bathing cloth. Smiling, she stooped and gently damped the cloth on Sansa's forehead. "To keep the fever away...oh," she falsely claimed concern at the ugly bruise that tarnished Sansa's right cheek, "What a pity. Does it hurt?" Myranda tried to touch only the edges of the purple mark. Sansa pulled her face away.

"It's alright," the she-wolf willed to speak, again covering her right shoulder with a hand, "What was your name again?" Myranda's hand was left hanging. She rested her hands instead.

"Myranda," she sighed, "Don't despair, my lady. You still look beautiful." The kennel girl assured. "You have to get used to it, anyway,"

She watched Sansa frown and furrow brows, "What?"

Myranda pursed her lips. "Nothing, my Lady,"

"Get used to what?" Sansa asked another time, determination coated on her speech.

"Being called beautiful," The kennel-girl raised her brows, wanting to laugh but must not. Sansa stared at her before looking away in a frustrated exhale. As she did, Myranda gazed at her intently, acknowledging the grey sleeping gown that the Stark girl wore, with her auburn hair freely flowing to her waist. And she hadn't believed in the stories that throbbed through the household, that Sansa was carried off by hooligans at the eve of her wedding, and was found abandoned by the river. It was even the least possibility. How could they have left her, the Key to Winterfell and the North, just after abducting her. It would have been the most imbecile decision to make. Myranda couldn't believe that the feared Roose Bolton would actually be falling to the sweet alibis. But she also knew that be it true or not, the wedding should not be delayed much further.

"Do you really want this wedding, milady?" she found herself asking, taking Sansa's arm from her shoulder and folding the sleeves up above the elbow to expose the milky flesh. Again she damped the cloth and began to sweep off the remaining dirt that clung.

"What?"

"Do you really want this wedding?"

Sansa replied with silence. She was good at that. Might as well cut off her tongue as there was no difference in her between having a tongue or not.

She was proved wrong when Sansa asked back. "Do you?"

Myranda shot her a look with an ashen face. The cloth on her hand stilled. Willing herself not to be caught with the shock, she laughed, "Well I should be, it means a lot to the Boltons, you know,"

"Does it, to you?"

The silence screamed between them, and Sansa Stark was waiting for an answer. Myranda forced a smile.

"Of course."

"How long have you loved him, Myranda?"

Myranda dropped her jaw. Her heart began to burst in uncontrollable pulses. She could almost see Ramsay in the room looking at her with a finger at his lips and smiling wickedly, telling her to keep the jealousy to herself or she'd face the consequences.

"Whatever you had, forget it. He must have done the same to you the moment I walked through the gates." Sansa pulled her arm from the servant girl, rolled down the sleeves and looked away. "Not that I am proud to take your place."

 _My place?_ Myranda gave a small laugh, forcing Sansa to look back at her. "My pl—? You don't know what you're talking about, milady."

"Oh but I do, darling." Sansa stared at her with a glint of threat from the edge of a knife. "You thought he would be with you forever is that it? I used to dream about finding true love but here I am, passed on from one inbred to another, and coming along to ruin your fantasies."

Myranda could only hope the lady has not seen her throat bobbing up and down as she swallowed. Her skin began to prickle with heat of infamy.

Sansa sighed. "Rest assured he only wants my belly for this matter. Perhaps he'll even have more time for you."

"Perhaps not," Myranda stood in all discourtesy that Sansa would have the right to have her hanged for the insolence. "He had his eyes draped over you like he had not done before to another. He must have seen you last night without your knowledge, is it?"

Sansa has not answered and Myranda felt the suds of certainty in the way that the lady stared. Myranda inched her head, "Or _with_ your knowledge?"

The she-wolf stiffly parted their eye contact, giving Myranda the familiar pangs of envy landsliding through her. And like a treasure on a map, she reached her hand out to the sunset-colored locks that covered Sansa's right shoulder, and flipped it away.

There below the she-wolf's shoulder gleamed a wine-red patch against ivory skin. Myranda's pupils dilated. The thumb-sized blotch wasn't a contusion and neither a bruise, and it was not as ugly as any of the two. It was a smudge made scarlet by gentle sucking. Its warmth when it was put there seared through Myranda's bones and she withdrew as hurt mocked her to the core. _Not Ramsay._ She repeated like a mantra even though it screamed his name around the passionate mark. She wanted to believe it was another lover but Sansa Stark was not a fool to keep one, not in a nest of vipers.

He has never given this to her, in all their years of violent pleasures. She only had painful discolorations on her body graced by how Ramsay bites her. She couldn't imagine him, _them_ , on this bed, probably last night, getting used to each other. She didn't want to picture Ramsay's lips on Sansa's bare shoulder, or his hands on her hair. She didn't want to visualize him being gentle to her, whispering three words that she herself has longed to hear. Of course, she wasn't sure how he treated her, but to think of his hands on the wolf sent revulsion on her stomach.

She was disturbed when Sansa covered the shoulder again. "Go."

Myranda took a step back, feeling the dam of tears threatening to break from her eyes. Sansa need not to repeat her command. Even before the she could, the kennel girl found herself fleeing down the winding staircase.

* * *

 **A/N:** Hello there and here's a Myranda update. **I've posted a MISSING CHAPTER prior to the happenings in this chapter as requested, a little Sansa and Ramsay encounter. SALT IN YOUR WOUNDS.** Hope you like it. Thank you very much. Valar Morghulis, Valar Dohaeris. Belated Happy birthday, dear 2tall2betrue. I am looking forward to reading some of your works when I buy the time.

 _ **ATHENARES**_


	12. 11 ARYM

_Extinguish my eyes, I'll go on seeing you._  
 _Seal my ears, I'll go on hearing you._  
 _And without feet I can make my way to you,_  
 _without a mouth I can swear your name._

 _~r.m.r._

* * *

Agitation struck him like disease. He heaved the burnt wood pieces on the large pile of them.

 _How could you, Sansa!?_

He sighed irritatingly after a thousandth question of the same. They had it carefully laid out, their measly plan. Of course not all measly plans succeed but theirs had almost. He had been careful and sly to enter Sansa's chamber the evening of her wedding, only to have her be hidden by Reek on the crypts. The hounds were afraid of those dungeons. The kennelmasters were still on the verge of training them to get used to the smell of death and ghosts inside. It was perfect. He joined the hunting expedition all night to frustrate and exhaust the men. And at first light, Reek would start fire on the kitchens to bait all the people within, and finally exit the nearest gate.

Now all those: the fire, the sleepless night, and the exhaustion to trail the hunters away, came futile because Sansa Stark was returned!

He aggressively kicked the pile of burnt furniture in front of him like an angry toddler. More men were sweeping out the debris that the fire broke. He looked at the cylindrical tower walls and watched the bricks blackened by smoke. His nose was filled with ash and the pungent smell of conflagration. _All this, for naught._

Arym thought she was sure to leave. But she wasn't so sure after all. _Argh! Women!_ His mind screamed relentlessly. Again he kicked the pile. A faint black smoke rose from the breakage.

"Arym,"

He turned to see the long-haired soldier that was one of Ramsay's trustees. His face was cold as his stare, his scraggly beard moved when his lips continued, "Lord Ramsay Bolton calls for you."

* * *

The door opened to young Bolton alighted on a thick tarred chair on the edge of a long table. The council room was glum as a graveyard. No torch was lit. Perhaps all have had enough fire last night, thus the Bolton banners seemed to tether with the shadows on the grey walls. His Lord looked staidly but his gaze was mused on a green apple in hand with a knife on the other. He hadn't even flinched at the sound of the hinges or when the door heavily locked behind Arym. Fresh from bath and dressed in black, he looked righteous.

"Milord." Arym's voice morosely recognized his master. Ramsay was silent. He began to carve into the peeling.

When the first small piece of green fell, the reply darkly drifted. "Have you rested, archer?"

"Yes, milord."

Ramsay never looked. "Good."

"You called for me."

"I did," the bastard exhaled, "I am in the mood for a tiny chat."

It was Arym that dropped silent at this matter. He felt nothing. He felt neither tensed, nor angry, nor afraid. He was nothing. But the purple stone on his chest went heavy, and it was like a whisper to his ears that he need not be threatened. But he was indifferent even if there was the lofty chance of not being able to walk out of this room alive.

"Have you ever flayed a man, Arym?"

Arym's jaw tightened. "No, milord."

"What a waste. All my soldiers should know how to flay a man."

He did not say enemy. He did not say traitor, nor foe. He plainly said _man_. And the knowledge that Ramsay Bolton did not care about whom he flayed sent burning tendrils of ire on Arym's head.

"Don't you worry. I'll give a glimpse of it one day. But let me fill you in." Ramsay let another line of peelings drop on the floor. "You could actually start with anywhere in the body. Though it is best to start at the thickest skin, I favour starting at the limbs. Take Reek, for example. You shove the knife into that littlest finger and slice to the palm. And oh, that screaming would be like music. They'd soon beg you to cut off that finger, and of course I do it. I nick it off as a grant to their wish."

Arym bit his tongue to prevent bile rising on his throat. It wasn't the sinister vividness that tossed his stomach. There were worse sights beyond the wall. But it was how this bastard was able to settle joy in peeling people like the apple tight between his fingers.

"And when you finish the hand, you cut through the arm. Down, down to the shoulder blade, and insert the flat of the blade under the skin to force that flesh off. You can slice if it's tough. And after an inch thick, or two, you peel it off. Like this."

Another line of green fruit skin bounced on the floor. Finally Ramsay looked at him, one side of his lips pulled up in a manic smile. The apple was completely naked and ready to be torn. Ramsay placed it between his lips, bit out a small part, and chewed. Arym could just imagine aiming an arrow on that apple as Ramsay was about to bite again. Suddenly he stopped, and let out a blood-curdling grin.

"You're probably thinking of shooting this apple aye? While I feed?" he was partly chuckling as he bit on. At this point, Arym's eyebrow twitched and he couldn't conceal the frown that marred his face.

"Don't you worry. Death threats aren't strangers to me. I eat them for dinner." Bolton went on.

Arym would have sworn he heard his mind curse in the wildling tongue. "Truly brave, milord."

Ramsay's jaw clenched as he was partly smiling, morsel of the apple still being ground on his mouth. "Do you ever play board games, Arym?"

"No milord."

Ramsay swallowed and cleared his throat. "I remember this...board game we used to play, Domeric and I. My brother." Realizing he missed a detail, he rolled his eyes, "He's dead, by the way. We used to play this, all the time, when we were younger. You see, each player takes a side of the chequered board with a set of carved and wooden pieces."

Arym watched the arm of Ramsay rest on the table with the apple still unfinished.

"Each set of pieces has a King, one you need to protect; a queen, the most powerful; a knight, a septon, and a castellan. And there are these...the smallest pieces, usually the most insignificant but vanguards of the game, plain soldiers.

"Rule is simple: protect the king. But to do that you need a master plan, something so unpredictable that with one move can crush that King to pieces." Ramsay pointed a finger at Arym with his free hand, still with the sly smile on his hard face. "The trick, Arym, is to trap the queen."

The archer swallowed. He was beginning to feel queasy as beads of moist began to appear under his hairline. This bastard, he thought, is some kind of a bloody mind reader.

"And to trap the queen, the player uses the soldiers of the game. You see, those wretched shitty pieces can be very cunning too. Put them on the right directions and they snap without notice. Don't you think that's exciting?" he was looking at him plainly with suppressed loathing.

"As you say, milord," Arym nodded. He placed both hands behind him to hide any evidence of trembling. His palms began to chill.

Ramsay smiled sheepishly, "Of course. But!" he turned to his fruit again and bit and chewed as he talked. "Domeric was good at it, yes. But I was better." He swallowed. "He...often makes his ways with his soldiers, and I wasn't a mind reader to wit out what was happening so I keep asking myself..."

Ramsay took the knife he used to peel the fruit. Slowly, glared at Arym, narrowing his eyes, "I keep asking myself..." he tore the blade on the apple, sluggish and measured with every word that came, " _What are you doing_ , little soldier placed there, huh?" His words dripped venomously between gritted teeth, "What in this bloody hell...are...you doing?"

Silence graced them both and Arym knew that glare which aimed an arrow between his eyes. If looks could kill, he would have been swimming in blood. He breathed deeply, and sighed. "It must be quite a game, milord."

Ramsay held the knife up with the fruit stuck on it, still looking at the archer. Suddenly he smiled.

"Ah. Almost forgot. I was about to give back something to you, I thought you might like it."

Arym could feel the familiar nip that plagued him. This conversation was starting to feel uncomfortable as he swallowed.

Small Jon appeared from a narrow door behind the room. Ramsay did not turn to look at him but instead waited until the burly silent partisan approached with a thin and long material wrapped in a rotten sack.

Ramsay took the item and stood, leaving the knife and apple on the table. The other soldier stood aside like a crow waiting for Arym's judgement. Ramsay walked toward the archer and when their gap was close, revealed the material inside. "I believe this is yours."

Arym's heart leapt. His pupils dilated at the object before him. The thin and long material was an arrow. _His_ arrow to be exact: a graceful object with black and white feathers interweaved in unequal stripes. He was only among the archers who graced such antiquity. The tip of the arrow was stained with hardened blood.

"Umber pulled it off a hound's neck," he neared his face with a stern and icy glower, " _My._ Hound's. neck."

Arym took a small step back, ensuring he had a considerable distance in case Ramsay will pin the arrow on his own jaw too. "Aye I released an arrow, milord, but not at the hound. Eyed a shadow that didn't belong to our men, and loosed at it but it ran. Must have been stuck on a branch and taken by the captors we were pursuing."

Ramsay began to consider, and Arym found himself seeking Divine assistance, if any, to help him make believe the statement. Ramsay Bolton was oft stupid. He sometimes catch the rumors of how Lord Roose Bolton would rebuke his bastard out of a deed that displeased the name. He surmised Ramsay would give a little space for consideration.

The young Bolton gave a last cynical stare, before breaking the ice. "You do not lie."

"No, milord." Arym equalled his look.

"Good." Ramsay handed the arrow. "Because you do know how I hate lying. That would be a very bad way to ruin your lord's trust."

Arym nodded and took hold on the weapon. It felt light on his hand.

"My father considers you greatly, archer. Do not make me change his mind." Ramsay concluded, head inclined in a rough promise.

"Yes milord." It felt bitter on his mouth.

"And so I would give you another task, to be left behind here in Winterfell with Umber. You would need a company, I presume."

Arym's head fell heavy. "Left behind? Where would milord go?"

There was amusement in Ramsay's voice as he walked back to Smalljon Umber.

"Why, get married. This delay has bored me."

Shock dropped like wildfire in Arym's face. The confusion delved deeper, and Ramsay seemed to notice no matter how hard Arym tried to mask it with indifference.

"Take a look." Ramsay pointed to the window nearest to Arym. Without delay, the archer moved to it even if he noticed the frown that pulled the bastard's face.

Two floors down was the courtyard specked in snow. A black carriage was being groomed for use. Two great horses stirred as the stable keepers latched the leathers on their jaws. They were all in black capes that he couldn't recognize who anyone was, but there was that unease that everything was awry. Another caped figure emerged with two maidservants behind her. He glimpsed her white face, and portions of red appeared on her forehead. His blood turned cold. She was looking around and he almost wanted to scream; Sansa Stark was looking around for signs of him, or Brienne, or Reek. A maidservant opened the door to the carriage and there was the hesitation that marked her gait.

"Where are you taking her?"

"Dreadfort."

The color drained from Arym's face. Even his eyes beckoned shock, it almost turned his indigo to gray.

Ramsay was getting the reaction he needed, "You seem...surprised?"

Arym looked out again, Sansa was no longer there. She was already concealed behind the doors of the carriage. He could imagine her confusion and shock, asking battalions of queries if this was part of the plan, and if not, where the monopoly would pick up its pace.

"No milord, I...why? This is Winterfell. The Northern Capital. Her h—"

"Home." Ramsay finished. "I am the Warden's heir, am I not? It is justifiable for the bride to be wed on her husband's home. Besides," he moved to the window as well and looked down with hands behind him. "A wolf on her breeding grounds knows the place better than anyone else. Put her in an Eagle's nest, or a lion's cave, and she would tuck her limping tail."

"You can't do this, milord...she—"

"She will what, Arym! What do you know of what she will do!?"

Ramsay Bolton's voice still flared against the walls even when the words have already left his mouth. Smalljon took a step forward with his hand on the hilt.

Arym has given away his stance. Realizing his own fault, he merely conceded. There was no way he could stop the mad dog now. "Nothing, milord."

Everything shushed. And yet Arym was itching to run down and pull Sansa off that carriage and off her fate. He thought to ambush them along the way, him and that lady knight Brienne. But he doesn't have the numbers. Ramsay Bolton was cunning. This is the boardgame he was yapping about. He indeed could not fathom the plans laid secret under his nose, but he knows its existence, and he knows how to shun them. He's taking Sansa Stark to his own labyrinth, where he knew would be insipid of an escape.

Ramsay turned to Smalljon. His boot heels making heavy and irritated taps. "Find Reek and have him ready my horse, we leave immediately."

"And the boy, milord?" Smalljon queried. His voice almost a low gurgle.

"Boy?" Ramsay confirmed.

"The Stark boy,"

Arym's face lighted.

"Keep him still. No word about him to Sansa, not until the wedding night." Ramsay commanded. He was every inch the heartless and cautious commander now.

"And that wilding girl?"

"She has a name?"

"She says Osha."

 _Bloody gods, Osha! You evil wise cunt, you._

"Bitch knows?"

"Aye, says she travelled to sell the boy to be taken to the queen."

"Fucking liar. First man she tells would have bought Rickon Stark in a jiff."

 _Rickon Stak._ Arym did not stir whilst keeping his ears awake as possible. Rickon Stark must be a brother, or a cousin, but nevertheless he was kin to Sansa. Given the secret they want to keep from her. And Osha too. Why on the bloody wall has she been with the boy?

"Keep Arym under your watch, Umber, he is quite dear to my father,"

Arym turned to them who was returning the stare as well.

Ramsay continued before leaving the door that Umber went into. "He makes a suspicious move, you show him to the torture chambers."

Smalljon gave him a look that almost promised excitement before following his master's heels. No fret antagonized Arym with the fading words, nor the promising look. It was pure elation that throbbed in his senses as he took one last look at the carriage that held Sansa and fled toward the door to take a different direction, but was immediately halted.

Wintry air greeted him when he pulled the latch and Arym congealed. On the staircase where he would run through stood the woman that always stalked his visions. She stood like a materialized person, but only he knew he could easily walk through her. Nothing changed on how she looked as she was still the skeletal body with the thinning hair and upset eyes. Arym led towards her, and when the space between them vanished, he found himself alone again. But swore he smelt Death lurking by.

Quickening his pace, he ran off with the reminder in store. But he needed to act out something else, something urgent. He must have failed to rip Sansa Stark off the clutches of the Boltons.

But he will not fail her little kin.

* * *

 **A/N:** I have just read your reviews and will not fail to respond to them. Thank you so. They mean so much to me. Valar Morghulis. Valar Dohaeris. xx


	13. 12 SANSA

_Silver eyes_  
 _Hoping for paradise_  
 _I've seen it a million times_  
 _Cry_

 _~t.n. silver_

* * *

A crunching sound left from underneath and her foot was on the snow-blanketed cobblestone. It was a bleak, cold dusk, and Dreadfort was as leaden as the darkening sky.

Sansa Stark suppressed a breath as she looked at the trail affront her, and every second left her chest heaving with woe. _This isn't right_ , she thought in utmost obscurity, _this is not at all right._ Her face was beginning to crumple, leaving her nose blushing with stifled sobs. Every inch of her protested but none can twist time and spiral her back to her haven.

"Lady Sansa,"

She looked up at him. Roose Bolton was waiting with an outstretched gloved hand. She reconciled he was waiting there for some time. Sansa gulped and exhaled as her trembling hand reached out to Roose's. He took it politely and inserted her arm around his. It wasn't until he moved forward that Sansa was pulled back to her gaping demise.

She wore a robe as white as the snow that loomed around her. It covered her neck with ruffles, and down her sleeves it widened. Its brocade glittered glamorously with every step she took. On her shoulders were silver leather pads that held the thin, long satin cape that gloriously rippled as she walked. It wasn't as pretty as the frock that she was supposed to wear at the foiled wedding back in Winterfell. But she wore it with such elegance that made it seem worth a chest of gold. The only jewel that hangs from her was a silver necklace with a pendant the shape of a direwolf's head. Her hair was in a large braid behind her neck, around it a thin string of small diamond replicas adorned.

The trail was studded with lanterns. And as Sansa and Roose passed, it equalled hopelessness in her face. The red weirwood tree looked aflame from their distance. She wanted to see Arym, at least, but knew he was not at hand. The Boltons were as cunning as snakes, and she was emerging the loser in the game she set.

In the gap finally appeared a small group of people. She could only name Walda, Roose's wife, and when a man in grey turned to look at her, her stomach churned.

Ramsay's eyes were fixed on her. Solely her. As if the world had become devoid of women and she was the only one left. The dark grey leather looked virtuous in him; it almost melted the bastard look on his gait. His eyes were electric blue, and Sansa would have sworn she saw a speckle of blush momentarily appear high on his cheeks before he looked away.

"Who comes before the old gods this night?"

A deep voice resounded from a burly man in maester's robes. It wasn't Wolkan, Sansa recognized. Probably a castellan of the fort, a septon, rather. He had balding hair, and abysmal grey eyes, and truly uncallow, which almost reminded her of grand maester Pycelle back in King's Landing.

"Sansa of the House Stark," the practiced reply came forth from Roose Bolton, "Comes here to be wed. A woman grown, trueborn and noble. She comes to beg the blessings of the gods. To be one with mine own kin." Sansa took her arm off her and since then looked down with her nails digging on her palm. _Her ghost, her ghost does. She doesn't exist anymore._

"Who gives her?" the presiding septon asked again.

"Roose of House Bolton, who is her father's successor as the Warden of the North,"

Sansa's skin pricked and bile corrupted her throat. _Treacherous snakes and murderers..._ she kept chanting on her head. It was a lie. This was all lies, all political pageantry and blasphemous rise to be on power. If not for all these people, she would have had a family instead.

"Who claims her?" Roose asked, a question directed to the obvious.

Ramsay stepped forward, "Ramsay, of house Bolton. Heir to the Dreadfort and Winterfell."

 _Monsters...monsters..._

Sansa fought the tears that begged to be freed and her hallowed breathing stretched her throat until it hurt.

"Sansa Stark,"

She looked up quietly, and all would have noticed the revulsion in her face as they stared aghast with her expression. Even Roose Bolton lost the vigor in his face and replaced in it was a cautious mask of fury.

The septon cleared his throat to distract the people from the rising whispers, "Will you take this man?"

It was then it hit her. There was no escaping this. She knew it then when she was locked in the litter that ramified her from her home. She knew it then when the drawbridge shook the ground and she passed across the portcullis of Dreadfort. It was a dark place, this castle. With dark walls, and dark fires, and cold too.

Again her childhood looked at her like a forgotten soul, and she smiled pitifully at it for all the dreams of being married in beautiful summer gardens have lost its taste. She looked around at the guests that she didn't know. It would've been mother or father among the people, it would've been Bran and Arya, and Robb and Jon, and Rickon too. And all of them are missing on her wedding night, all shadows beyond a fire that had even stopped burning.

Sansa stared at Ramsay who was beginning to feel tensed as he narrowed his eyes on her. She stepped forward to ease his discomfort, and in a quick response, she stated. "I take this man."

It was as if a great weight was lifted off Roose, marked by how he exhaled and then he stepped off. The people gave their blessings to them, one which Sansa was not welcome of taking. She saw Ramsay, though, as a serving girl appeared between the crowd and served a goblet to the groom. Ramsay took it, stared for a while, and took in small drops. She haven't even seen him gulp, but who cared for now? Ramsay had always been a slave to wine, and remembering that feat made her touch her shoulder again, the flesh that was tattoed temporarily with his heat.

"Ramsay Bolton, will you give your token of promise to Sansa Stark, as a signature to her and her house." The septon announced. Sansa's face dropped briefly. Has tradition began to fleet, she asked. This was no part of the ceremony as she could remember.

Ramsay stepped toward her and looking through her eyes had given her a squeamish feeling. And Sansa thought he had beautiful cobalt eyes for a bastard, his fraud husband. He removed his glove and held her cheek and her heart leapt. But then before he could move, he took a sight to his father, who, with humourless liking, gave a slow nod.

Sansa half-closed her eyes when Ramsay touched his lips on hers. The people around them gave an almost boring applaud. It wasn't quick, she noted. He was still on her face and his lips were like sunset. Then there was the taste of mint that dissolved in her mouth. When Ramsay parted, he wasn't quick to do so too. Again he kissed her almost gently, before pulling off and sighing into her lips like he was courting them the most romantic way. The taste was much stronger this time. He opened his eyes to catch her already opened ones before moving to press his lips on her on the forehead.

* * *

She entered the chamber and warmth and the smell of Honeywine greeted her like a friend. The serving girl that led her, bowed and left. Ramsay had not followed. She remembered him wiping blood from his nose before she was taken here.

Shadows played hide and seek among the bricked walls as torch fires flickered. Cinders glowed on the hearth where a bear pelt rug lay in front to. A five-pronged candle holder was lit on the table, beside a slice of grain cake and a tin decanter of wine dark as night. On the wall hung a tapestry of galloping horses, their hooves crashing on mud and water. And her eyes fixed on what gawked underneath it. The bed was staring back at her: a wide sea of vair and fur and silk. At this her insides coiled and looked away, feeling little bullets of sweat shimmer on her temples.

"Do you like it?"

Sansa looked behind. She did not know how long Ramsay had been staring at her staring at the chamber. He was leaning on a door post, and had a change of clothing from grey to black. There was no smile on his face. No amusement. No excitement. Nothing evil. And Sansa was even more alarmed at that. She looked around again, before nodding.

Ramsay then moved to lock the door, and the heavy thud sent Sansa swallowing.

"Good." His voice echoed. "I want you to be happy." At his last word he wobbled lightly but immediately took stand.

"Are you alright, my Lord?"

Ramsay waved her off instead and went to the table, took two flagons and filled half each, and handed one to Sansa. She was hesitant, but took it nonetheless as he watched him stride past her and onto the window.

Ramsay finished the wine in a gulp, still not facing her. "What do you think of me, Sansa?"

She shivered at his query, and despite herself trying to contain her honesty, she couldn't. "Cruel."

She saw him unmoved. And he placed the flagon on the window sill. After which, eased his hands off the leather gloves.

"Then perhaps," he spoke, loosening the buckle on his collar, and cracking his neck, "I could be crueller still."

She froze. A blast of nausea made her skin shiver and left a ringing on her ear, leaving the last words inaudible. Her brows twitched and she looked at him. He was already facing her, watching her, and teeming with anticipation. "I..."

"What?" He asked, angling his head to the side.

Sansa was struck with another wave of queasiness that left almost half her brain unconscious. She heard her anxious breathing, and her knees trembled badly until one of them collapsed and she jerked forward. The ringing on her ear was louder this time.

"Are you unwell?"

She heard him again but his voice was muffled as if he was speaking underwater. She shook her head, beads of sweat began to glitter on her scalp. Gathering enough strength on her throat, she managed an answer. "No, I-I'm fine,"

"Yes, you will be,"

The flagon slipped from her fingers and she felt the tin material vibrate as it clinked against the floor. Even the wine that spilled seemed to move slowly and seeped through the hem of her gown. Heat dragged spasms across her body, wave after wave.

Her vision blurred and everything in the room seemed to revolve. She could not even hear herself, just the stillness of the ringing on her head. She wanted it to stop. Her stomach heaved a pressure she was so unfamiliar with and before she knew it, her hip hit the table where the rest of the wine lay.

One hand held her steady against the furniture. Another clasped on the throbbing on a side of her temples. Her forehead was sheen with throng of perspiration.

And then she felt his arm circle her small waist and almost gently pressed her against him. She has not even recalled him standing from the edge of the table and walking towards her. He has magically appeared close, and she abhorred it.

"Let me g... ah," Sansa shoved him. She shoved his chest, she was sure, strong and harsh, she was sure. But it all seemed futile as Ramsay was still clinging on to her, untouched and unmoved and never flinching. Her breathing had become filled with panic. _No. Please. No..._ Her tongue felt thick and when she tried to speak it was like a gag on her mouth.

"Shhh..."

Sansa felt his searing breath on her earlobe. The fine hairs on the back of her hair bristled. She did not understand. "Poison..." she whispered, not weakly, not harsh as well. She gave another slight push, but Ramsay closed in on her, one hand on the back of her head, pressing the side of her face on his shoulder, and the other arm hungrily wrapped on her waist. He was so calm it made her sicker. She knew it. That little exhibition on the heart tree, his lips on hers, that minty taste. There was a hallowing on the bridge of her nose that spilled slowly on one nostril. She didn't have the strength to wipe it off but she need not wipe it off to confirm it was blood.

 _Damn you...curse you..._

She was sure to die. The Boltons have poisoned her. They have rooted her away from home, from Winterfell, wed her, and now killing her. She was dying. _I'm dying..._

When it occurred to her that she was slowly passing out of the world, it almost sent her insane.

 _I'm dying...and I will be home...soon. To Winterfell...to mother. And father..._

She was grateful, though, that at least, of all the deaths that stole her family, hers was the most peaceful one. At least, she thought, she did not lose her head, or slit her throat, punctured her heart, nor burned her skin. She was to meet her family, Mother and Father, as the totality of herself: in her wedding dress, in the arms of her Lord Husband who has made her believe she was cared for.

She will leave the realm as the last wolf who drank the bitterness of love, who was betrothed to the inbred, married to the ugliest man she'd ever seen, and now murdered in her own wedding night.

 _I go now..._ a tear slipped from her eye, sombre and peaceful. She was almost smiling. The last thing she saw was a moth that had gotten into the lantern that hung on the wall. She could hear it buzzing and see the shadow of its wings as it beat against the glass.

* * *

 **A/N:** Apologies for the late update. But I've posted two chapters to compensate for the lack. Feel free to click on the next. Valar Morghulis. Valar Dohaeris. xx.


	14. 13 SANSA

_I have lost myself again_  
 _Lost myself and I am nowhere to be found,_  
 _Lost myself again and I feel unsafe_

 _~s. breathe me_

* * *

Her vision slowly cleared.

An open window. A five-pronged candelabra on a table, its wax melted and clung like witches' curse.

Two silver flagons, one toppled over. She was lying on the side.

Sansa blinked once, twice until her mind settled and the giddiness danced away. The lantern on the wall was cold and lifeless now. And on the floor a moth lay on its tattered wings as ants began to break it piece by piece.

Her fingers moved and felt the soft pillow. Her body remained numb and uncertain...and painful. She caught the sound of rattling keys and the door opening. Trying to move, she heaved her shoulder to lie face up and the numbness seared. Parts of her skin felt sticky, especially on her neck down to her navel. Her lungs beckoned for air and she inhaled deep to fill in.

Looking at the servant who came in, she saw his back. She recognized the scraggly figure, the limping motion, and the worn-out clothes. _Theon._ He was placing a tray on another table. The sound of cutleries were evident. _Theon!_ He was here all along. _Oh Theon you've come to save me._

She pressed an elbow against the bed and forced herself up. Slowly she was able to, and it seemed then everything had become lighter, except for a pounding on her right temple.

When the blanket that covered her chest began to unravel her, the throbbing and numbness dispersed. Instead, shock took over and painted confusion passionately on her face. She stared at an ugly bruise just above her wrist, something that resembled a gripped hand. It ached when she touched it, and everything in her suddenly did. She began to pull the blanket off her with eyes widening at every inch exposed.

She wore her small clothes from last night, a white satin which was now crumpled mercilessly. Her cleavage bared out of the untied ribbons on her collar.

"No..." Sansa whispered to herself, horror hung on her very breath. The air around her began to feel acrid as she touched the discolorations on her breasts: repulsive marks of grasps and teeth which seemed to look at her with nasty smirks. Her nipples felt sore and the aching began to smear her chest.

"No...please no..." She began to see tears clouding her vision as she undressed her shoulders and saw the same blotches. She traced a teeth mark on a shoulder blade, one that slightly showed abrasion. She couldn't remember it getting there.

And there was something in her that wanted to stop herself from looking at the place where it proved everything about her had been ruined. Terror dragged her head to look down on her hips which was still covered with the blanket. She bit her tongue as her hands slowly pulled the sheets away. Hesitation owned her fingers but still they clutched on the skirt that covered her legs.

Sansa suppressed a sob as she unravelled the limbs which were slightly spotted with marks of pressure. A strange smell filled her nose, alcohol, sweat, and something...else. She slightly parted her legs and her sensitive part stung.

She covered her mouth with a trembling hand and felt hot tears escape her eyes.

There it lay flat and dry on the sheets between her legs: the stain of her maidenhood, a livid red mark of defeat that looked at her with intense loathing.

Sansa shook her head and shut her eyes as she embraced her thrusting shoulders. She had never felt such shivering, such revolt and self-disgust inside her before, and her body went limp as her remaining force was dragged on her throat. She slowly dropped herself, a gentle body wounded, a mind that rioted with desperation to know what she has ever done to deserve such, and a soul that wanted to be free of the clutches of the world. She crouched into a ball on the bed, half naked with her hair as vibrant orange as the pain that marred her face. She lost the last honor that she ever had, that she ever protected.

" _Perhaps...I could be crueller still."_

She began to scream.

* * *

 **END OF PART I**


	15. 14 PRELUDE

_Thank you for your continuous support._

 _Welcome to a new part which will delve on the life after the vows,_

 _A battle of thoughts between the most ironic married souls._

* * *

 **Part II**

 **SANSA BOLTON**

* * *

 _High off her love,_

 _drunk from her hate,_

 _It's like I'm huffing paint_

 _and I love her_

 _the more I suffer, I suffocate._

 _~e._


	16. 15 RAMSAY

_I pick my poison and it's you._

 _~r.o._

* * *

He dropped the tray on the table and in the silence of the room it sounded like an exaggerated crash.

"Eat," his voice was pressured with ire, "I haven't come a long way just to hear you starve yourself. Eat."

In the shadows she was unstirred, huddled into a small grey ball at the edge of the bed. She wasn't even rolled between the blankets. Her feet were bare, her hair a thick mass of bland orange, her back a bent bow that that faced him. She looked like a corpse, if not for the slow rising and falling of her shoulders, the one thing that Ramsay sought to examine.

He stared at the other tray that lay beside the new one he almost scattered. The food: a large slice of baked barley, a bowl of oats and fruit, and a platter of buttered venison remained cold and untouched.

It wasn't the first tray she wasted, he was told. When he, his father, and half a dozen men left Dreadfort the day after the wedding night to urge a few old Lords (a bunch of useless, wrinkled bag of bones) to a council meeting, he secretly left instructions to keep her well provided even when it was the first of times he would have done such.

And it was a tedious task, he thought. Tedious and boring. His father again proved himself an ass this time to choose the best night of his life to ruin and added two more nights away from his wife.

"Eat and bathe," again he commanded, "We've fetched guests to dine with us. It is best they see you."

Again there was no response but her silent breathing and he took it as an added cinder to the fire that began to curdle his cold blood. It was as though indifference were an infection that had entered her veins it was everywhere in her body. His fingers dug into his palms, his teeth clenched and in his jaw appeared taut muscles.

But the blotches of ugly purple on her now pallid skin cascaded like cold water to his boiling point. He knew what he did to her, he does. And in his mind he stared down on her that night, reminiscing the feat of tightening on his breeches which screamed an entirely different elation that almost made his lips quiver now. He could still recall his lips on her long marvellous neck, her naked shoulders, her deep and sweat-stained cleavage peeking through a dismantled corset.

He was supposed to be guilty, he knew, but no. No amount of guilt could diffuse the arousal that always sends power filling between his legs at the slightest whiff of her fear. But there was a sort of pity he felt for her which he did not know whence it came from.

Ramsay pressed his temples with a thumb and forefinger, almost begrudgingly, stifling the urge to touch her. "What do you want?"

Nothing.

"Food? Beverage?"

Nothing.

"A dress? Jewelry?"

Nothing.

"Have it your way then. If it seems you want nothing then I'd better lock you in this chamb—"

"Home."

Ramsay's last word was left hanging when her weak voice cut him icily. "What?"

"I want to go home," she continued and sniffled, "to Winterfell."

This time it was he that ran dry off words. His mind began to race in consideration. Winterfell wasn't at all bad, he acknowledged. It is the Northern Capital, and his life-long plan to man it would mean he had to be there all the time.

And a deeper layer of him wanted to fulfil anything that would make her up to her feet again.

"Show yourself at dinner," Ramsay spoke, "And we'll be back in Winterfell in a fortnight."

"On the morrow,"

He frowned. "There are things that need straightening yet, Sansa. It is not possible to leave on the morrow."

"I'll go alone."

He chuckled with mocking, a thing he did so naturally. "You think I'll let you do that?"

"Go to your dinner, then. Please announce to those Lords I've just hanged myself."

Ramsay Bolton restrained the waves of staggering cold that hit him from behind as he merely watched her burrow her arms underneath the pillow. Any other person he would have flayed on the spot. He would have strangled her, or yanked her off her lying place and have her beaten naked to the dungeons. But with Sansa Stark, he felt like a requiem. And he hated this yielding to her, this is a battle he merely wins except, of course, with the influence of a drug.

He gave out a frustrated sigh and ran a hand through his hair before heading out the door.

"We'll leave in three night's time," he said in an almost calmed manner, "Now get dressed."

He wanted to see her budge or awaken at least, and so he kept looking on with his fingers on the latch of the door, waiting for a shift of her sheets. When the familiar sting of ache touched him, he bit the wall of his mouth and left.

* * *

He mentally cursed when Roose's icy, wasted stare angled at him, ready to fire. Impatience was a part of his father's frame, one thing that Ramsay always touched in him as often as disappointment does. He remembered father's recent words, with a firm and dangerous hold in his arm and a much more dangerous mood, behind the curtain that led to the dining hall.

"I heard." father went on with gritted teeth, stuffing the chills down Ramsay's throat, "Chances come and go, Ramsay, and I gave yours to do as you please but if your wife is withdrawn from their sight, what I've given you, I can take away as easily. They need to see her _unharmed_ , do you bloody understand? You might as well start praying she doesn't show up skin and bones if the rumors of her starving is true."

And there he left him as if he's never spoken to a son at all and the boy spat. He talked of _unharmed_ and yet was into nods at the decision of the drugging.

He began tapping the cobbled floor with the heel of his boot, the rims of his eyes darkening with pious anxiety. He watched every head that entered the hall and all the more his palms went moist and his imagination ran wild when she doesn't appear.

"Where is Lady Sansa?"

It was a question he wanted to flay. _Shut up, you fucking fool._ His rattled eyes would stare at the lesser lords that wanted the proof of her safety. Sansa Stark is standing him up, and his thoughts went grim over having her locked indeed in the fort with no more hopes of seeing Winterfell again.

When the question battered him for the last time, he managed a faux leave and could see in the corner of his eyes, his father's hostile, sanctimonious gait. But as he turned his back to escape, his ears ticked.

"My lady,"

The lords were bowing and kissing the hand of the beauty that finally appeared. He felt ventilated at most, and the sweat that glistened on his temples began to evaporate easily out of relief. Sansa was in the mood for play, he considered. She wore a cobalt frock and her auburn hair was done in a clean coil behind her head. She was every inch a lady with her steady graceful curtsies and queenly smiles and it hit him like winter instead. She was as beautiful as when he first saw her, but when her sorrowful eyes met his and her smile faltered, he felt a pang of jealousy.

Ramsay stretched his hand out for her to take and he felt her hesitation reject him through and through. Finally she touched his hand to be led but the trembling in them was so relevant even until they sat side by side, across Roose Bolton.

Father was eyeing his wife, and Ramsay's mind flared like lighted wildfire. No, father does not just think highly of his wife, Ramsay hypothesized, father wants her for himself if he failed to have her impregnated. With this he shook his head to elude him off the frenzied thoughts. _Of course not. It can't be._ _Father has an honor to protect. He couldn't. He wouldn't. He gave her to me._

 _But you're a bastard, fool._ The devil would whisper, a black-breathed homunculus trapped on the closet of his brain. _He could cross you off without conscience, and will take everything from you._ And with it a murderous laughter hung.

He can't fail. He can't. The resolution took its toll on him there and then, he can't fail this time or it will be hell unleashed on him as if he hasn't been feeling the heat of it yet.

All this time he fretted like a child and haven't noticed the lords on the long table have started dining, and whispering among themselves, too. Ramsay watched each of their faces: old, ugly bluebloods begging for another chance at youth.

His eyes caught the glances of the lords at his wife, and the angst he nursed bit deeper. _They're pitying her, or wanting her, and think nothing of me._ His hand tightened on the spoon he was holding. _You grey-haired fucks, you traitors, all wanting to put me aside to have her._ With that his breathing deepened along his now dusking eyes.

And then father announced it. His pig of a wife is pregnant and highly expectant of a boy.

Sansa beside him sucked in a breath that resembled that of enduring pain. And Ramsay actualized his hand was on his wife's thigh, clutching fiercely, pouring the anger on that grip without giving a hint to anyone in the room. And as it remained there, a different hue of hunger begged on him. He wanted her, now, there and then. He wanted to release tension, to release the familiar disturbance that gathered in his guts. And under the table, his hand travelled closer to her groin whilst relishing the way she sat uncomfortably.

He inched his eyes to her to see the reaction if he could reach...a little higher...towards...

"What's on your mind, Ramsay?" Roose Bolton snatched his concentration before sipping from his goblet. He must have noticed the strangeness between the two. "House Glover has not yet bent the knee, indeed Lord Glover is not here celebrating with us. What's on your mind?"

Ramsay's eye twitched with ire. _Fucking my wife, idiot._ "I... _" Putting her on a platter and eating her._ "I'm yet to decide, father." His hand stilled on Sansa's thigh and she cleared her throat.

"I'm surprised," Roose leaned on his chair, "You seem to be quiet. I remember you've always had a say on these matters."

Ramsay did not look at his father. Instead the forefinger on Sansa's thigh began to draw small circles. He was thinking, but he couldn't. Lust had clouded his mind and he partly cursed it. But his eyes shot open when Sansa's calm voice spread.

"My lord husband has been quite fatigued, my lords, please spare him,"

He quickly turned to her and she did not give back the attention.

"Perhaps you ought to give him a breather out of the word on his stepmother's pregnancy. I hope you understand the cost of it to him."

Soft chuckles rang from the table.

Ramsay's blood turned cold. _No._ She can't be doing this. Not here, not now. He used to be skilled at hiding the vexation on his face but right now there was neither of it. Cold bullets of sweat plagued under his hairline and words were robbed off him.

She held the hand that perched on her thigh and he succumbed to defeat as she removed it off her like disease. The way she silenced herself, though, laced a guilt that slightly glowed.

Sansa inhaled and he just felt the need to rip the breath off her, and yet he couldn't. He couldn't with her next words: "But it is not at all that, my Lords, my husband has been seeing to my needs even in his absence. If you could at least spare him tonight to retreat early as I need him to see me to my chambers. I've been plagued by headaches for quite some time."

There was a while of concern from the old men and Roose Bolton gave them the leave. "Perhaps a goblet of dreamwine, Lady Sansa, will help you rest."

It took a while before Ramsay and his wife tailed along with her arm on his. And once they were concealed behind the curtains, she slipped her arm off and headed straight to the winding stairs without words. Disgust and anger moved Ramsay to run to her and in an instant pushed her against the wall. Her brows furrowed at the sudden shake and he made out she indeed was suffering from a throbbing on her head.

"That comment was unnecessary!" He spoke between grinding teeth, his eyes an alloy of fire and ice.

But she looked on at him without any wont of trepidation and dread. "And neither was raping me."

With this Ramsay's jaw stilled and his muscles condensed in stupor. He must have loosened his hold on her for she freed herself easily and continued up the stairs instead.

* * *

He spied on, watching the blue gown slip off her arms and gather a crumpled pool around her feet. The white small gown left on her was so thin it showed her flesh like a spectacle only he had the ticket to watch. When she caught him staring from the door post, there was the split second fear that made her cringe but it disappeared quite easily.

And he examined her, examined the red and purple marks on her shoulder, the bites and finger scrapes, and it was a sick thought but he loved her that way: he loved her fierce eyes and stiff face as if she wore them like a badge of honor. She grazed her eyes on him from face to feet before looking away with callused hatred and he could taste the disgust under her skin. Little did she know that her own brooding hostility had ignited a fire in him that swelled into the wanton awe which showed in his facade.

Ramsay thickly swallowed with a sudden craving for this growling wolf. The thought of her this beautifully angry had surged power that began to fill between his legs.

"I want you," he suddenly blurted, and was unsure why he did. "I want you, Sansa."

She stopped moving and twisted her neck to see him square in the eye, "Should I be surprised, Ramsay?"

It hurt. Indeed. There was no unkindness that hurt like this before. It never would have hurt if it were Myranda, or Violet, or Tansy. It has not even equalled the childhood hurt of rejection from his father. They were as angry at him but he did not give a fuck on what they felt as long as he satiated his desire with blood on his bed or on his arrows.

With Sansa it was unlike any, it was more than different and he could not fathom why she had such rain on him. Such rain that pushing him away would not budge his desire for her.

Ramsay silently moved towards his wife and pulled her shoulder so she could face him. In deft and graceful quickness, he cupped her face so as to feed on the bitter odium in her cold blue eyes. Gods, even in rancor she's so beautiful. He caught her deep loathful sighs and his hands landed on the cloth draped above her shoulder.

Once upon a time his mother asked him what he wanted and all he would have thought of was his father's acceptance. _I want to ride with Domeric, I want a castle of my own._ He recalled the answers rolling on his head. _I want to hunt, I want to flay. I want Dreadfort, yes, and I want Winterfell too._ But all of those melted like snow dying under first light. He now knew that the ultimate answer was standing resentfully in front of him.

The sound of ripping cloth bellowed and he watched the silken dress gash in his hands. _And her._ Shreds of white flew in parting directions.

 _Just her._


	17. 16 SANSA-ROOSE

_Shut your eyes, there are no lies_  
 _In this world we call sleep_  
 _Let's desert this day of hurt_  
 _Tomorrow we'll be free_

 _(s. soon we'll be found)_

* * *

She remembered nights her mother brushed her hair in front of the fireplace while the stars and the fireflies partied outside the window. That was nearly a decade ago, when lady mother would sing and she would sing with her and the cracking of the fire on the hearth would sap at the mellow fuse of their voices. Sansa had a lovely voice, they used to tell, a voice as lovely as her noble face. She would grow up to be a beauty, and a wonderful musician too. And mother would excite her with stories of how the lords would queue even for a single finger on her hand.

"Noblemen would entourage for you, my sweetling," Lady mother would say, sending blushes on Sansa's cheek as red as her sunset hair, "You are such a lovely flower, and I promise a gallant, chivalrous gentleman for you, to protect and cherish you more than your lord father and I have ever done."

Sansa closed her eyes to the tear that slipped out. Mother was such a liar.

She has not been given away to a man who would see her like a brittle vessel. She was given to a beast...

A beast now with one hand tight on her wrists above her head, and the other hand gripping on her thigh.

Ramsay's cheek reddened but so did Sansa's palm. The crisp cracking sound of her hand to his face still remained on her ears, prior to the tearing of her night dress. And the room became a scandalous battlefield of slaps and scratches, of curses and biting, and even an overturning of the table which might have been heard to the last hearth. But Sansa became nothing more than a wounded, defeated pup thrown in a violent thud on the mattress: a red-faced and tear-stricken spoil of war, which he quickly pressed his weight on, grabbed the wrists which tried to claw on his eyes, and jammed them above her head. The other hand madly yanked on the remaining cloth on her shredded one, pried a leg away from the other to squeeze his body between her knees.

Helplessness dawned on her when the sound of his belt buckle clambered on the floor; she gave a cry and a growl all the same. Tears poured restlessly from the edges of her eyes as she feebly shook her head with both anger and pleading. Her wrists ached on his singular grip and her shoulders numbed at the petulant force she struggled to beat on him. Sansa was a wolf tied on both legs but despite the clarity of her loss, she still bared her fangs at him, but it immediately withdrew when Ramsay's eyes glowed with an excited, sordid glee. Her body shook on ire and dread but there was a larger sum of the latter abstract that filled her and made her sob angrily.

She could not tether understanding to this man, this Ramsay, this mad husband of hers. He was supposed to mortify the moment she lashed on him. Noblemen should comprehend when a lady was insulted, but it was diametric with him. The disgust she impaled on him seemed like a well-done steak to a rabid dog instead, thus the punches and scratches had become minute—even useless—resistance. He was staring down on her nakedness, his body stiff and chest breathing deep and Sansa knew he wanted her the more that way like she was a glorious prize. And thus he continued gawking on her: half-smiling, vexed and awed.

"Get away!" She cried—no, she snarled with a frustrated kick—after which sobbed in the end. But she got a bite in the breast as an answer instead, sending a filthy, momentary death on her. Ramsay grazed his teeth on a nipple and licked up to her neck and just below her ear, sending her chest to heave up with a stifled groan and before she could make further seditious sounds he crushed his lips on her, calming her but betraying her at most. He pressed his forehead on her neck and lined himself on her entrance as if teasing her, and with one full, dry thrust he pierced her and filled her to the edge.

Sansa screamed, out of pain, out of disgust, and out of all the ugly things in the world. In her mind she was screaming and cursing and clawing out relentlessly, but all had become a frustrated, hapless act as even when she called for the gods, Ramsay would only close his eyes as if her screaming had become a melody to his ears.

* * *

And thus her own screaming woke her up.

Sansa looked around only to locate herself not in the room anymore, _temporarily_ free of the barbaric incidents that drove her off barefoot. The jutted, wrestling branches danced above her but she felt as if they were bending down to catch her by the hair. The crooked shadows closed in on her in all directions and when the wind made a whiff, there was the cracking of the fallen leaves as they rolled helplessly on the soil. The forest breathed in a nocturnal air and left her blinded by gloom.

She recognized her lack of clothing indeed for she was only covered with a cape she hadn't recognized whose. But she couldn't recognize anything. She didn't know where she was, or how she got there, but she only knew the familiar aching on her head. Slowly she stood.

"Sansa..." A ghostly call left her timorous. It seemed like a series of female voices chorused in whispers and screams she could not decode whence it came from.

An owl hooted at a distance and she caught her breath with a halt. Every movement left a severe dread on her and she continued to move whilst clutching the cape on her nudity. The only light she could be thankful of was from the moon and the starless sky. A bird dived above her and she ducked as if anticipating claws ready to filch her off to a nest filled with wormed human bones.

"Sansa..."

"Sansa..."

Quickly she turned back, played on by the crispy murmurs of leaves dryly scratching each other and it was there it dawned on her that the moon was playing on her vision. The familiar throbbing betrayed her temples and everything became a cacophony that swirled on her greying consciousness. She looked around, catching sight of different voices that called her name, but there was none. She clutched on the hair on either sides of her head and she began to hear her own desperate breathing speeding up.

With another turn, she came face to face with an arrow notched at her and she stopped to stare at its pointed edge.

Ramsay was aiming at her and even with the spite she felt for him, it was the sight of him that made her most secure at the dire moment. He eyed her for long, full of suspicion from the dark eyes swathed in moonlight, and Sansa could only return the favour of staring. When his arms lowered and the string of the bow retracted, she heard herself push out a silent breath of relief.

"Who's with you?" his wary, sceptical voice filled in.

She did not answer, and instead looked around with a lax head. "...No one."

"You. Lie." Ramsay's teeth ground even with only two words elicited between them. It was so bitter to the bone and he raised his arrow at her once more, making her eyes stiff. "Bring him out. I'll make him swallow his balls and gods I swear I will chain you this time."

She felt his anger sealing him in, could receive the radiating hostility biting on her bones. Right now he was a fuming, a betrayed beast clamoured with jealousy and the beaming frustration in him only sickened her the more.

"Who led you here, Sansa?" again he asked with fingers beginning to tremble. Sansa was deciding whether it was from anger or fatigue sending the chills on his arms, but she was betting on the former.

She swallowed. "I'm alone...I..." _I thought this to be a dream._ "I was dreaming...my Lord."

Her last two words seemed to nibble off a small portion of his enmity. He kept staring at her, before lowering the arrow again with a muffled sigh. A cold wind made its way through them and its icy fingers stung her already reddened cheeks. She tightened the cloak in her. In all honesty she didn't know what a dream was anymore, on which part she woke up, on which part she fantasized. Her head had become a marriage between reality and phantasm and just deciphering its beginning had wrecked her temples. She fell into a quick whizz but managed to stiffen herself from falling. It was then the familiar hallowing on the bridge of her nose occurred. Added to that is a stinging on her feet and her toes beginning to feel slimy.

Ramsay pulled her arm to close the distance between them, and casted his eyes on all directions to make sure they were truly alone.

He cursed. Loud and clear between gritted teeth and she fathomed he was looking at the ground. Wiping his face in slow aggressiveness, he ripped his cape off the shoulders and wrapped them around her before kneeling to touch her feet. Again her muscles contracted like a scared cat, and took a step away from him. When he rose and raised his hand, she saw the blood that smeared his fingers and was slow to realize where it had come from.

Sansa looked down. It weren't shadows that bathed her feet. It was a hot red liquid slowly coating it, coming from different abrasions and gashes that covered them. Her night sojourn had been prized with bites of glass shards and sharp stones and twig jabs, all of which she could never actualize before as if magic had made them appear without prior notice. When she looked back at her husband, she was greeted by his wild eyes which suddenly tamed. The crumples of provocation slowly straightened and she did not know why. Perhaps she had become a ghost. Perhaps she grew two heads. Perhaps her face fell.

Something fluid drenched to her lips, and she could trail it from her nose. Again the sickening bite on her brain dug deeper. She touched her nostril with frosty fingers and there she looked at the thick, dark coating, but she couldn't register what it was. She couldn't because her husband has become shreds of grey in front of her, and black butterflies began to flutter her vision to completely blind her. And there was the frantic calling of her name.

* * *

These were nights that displeased him most, when sleep was too stingy and within the first hour it has loved him, there were the sound of knight heels making a revolt in his head. He sighed hard and stiff, and sat up tacitly to await what news needed to spoil him. His wife was a big ball curled beside him, her halcyon breathing making him envious he almost wanted to rip it off her awhile.

Roose Bolton stifled a yawn and shook off the moistening in sleep-deprived eyes and wound his grey robe tighter around him. Now what could his son have to tell him at this wee hour? Ramsay was oft off his mind, he considered, but he would not be too stupid to summon him in the light of his sleep or he would be blessed with fury.

From the mezzanine he showed up, and looked down on the great hall to see Ramsay Bolton sitting glumly on a chair at the edge of the long table. He looked like a ghost down there, and Roose would have wished it to be that way. He started to descend and yet his footsteps did not stir the boy. The torch fires flickered. A rooster began to crow faintly from the distant outside.

"I have been plagued by Walda's ills and mood flights, Ramsay," Roose greeted in a protest, now near to the edge of the long table. His voice echoed in all corners of the hall. "I am in a mood for flaying if you do not give me a valid—"

"It happened. Again."

Lord Father sank. Scepticism fled him like a mist through wind and he was sure those cobalt eyes that looked at him flares with cold fear. He wet his lips and narrowed his eyes, his fingers clutched on the edge of the table.

"Where?"

"The woods..."

His nostrils flared. "Now how could she have gotten there?"

"I—she took a key off my cape, walked through the gate down the hidden alleyway,"

"And I suppose she's alone, is that it?"

Ramsay swallowed before looking away and Roose could see the glitter of sweat on his son's brow. _How cowardly you look now._ There was no charade of haughtiness in his son's face, only the sudden burst of worry that marred it. And father was guilty of delighting over his son brooding like this.

"She—uh," Ramsay sniffed, the constricting on his mouth concealed gritted teeth. Roose noticed the dark shades under the bastard's eyes, it were those or the deep lines under them. Has Sansa Stark kept him awake all night?

"Spit it out, Ramsay. We don't have all night."

But Ramsay bent his head instead after clicking his tongue. He slouched on the chair before pinching his temples, and sighed, long enough to have Roose absorb the vexation that shimmered in his stead. Ramsay murmured.

"What?"

"She's losing it," son looked up, bright blue eyes complexed in silent trepidation. "Her mind."

Roose repressed a laughter. Ramsay could only look on.

"What an amusement," father said, snorting awhile, "You to distinguish someone who's lost a mind, I'm startled you are troubled..."

He could see the tensing of his son's jaw as he plainly stared up at him, unappeased by the reaction.

"Said her mother led her out, wanted her to run away," Ramsay said stiffly, "She's seeing Catelyn Stark, father, perhaps you try to recall who she was?"

How he wanted to hit his son, but not there when they were alone. Of course he knew Lady Stark. All the while he has always thought Catelyn a beautiful woman too, as how he sensed Petyr Baelish' s opinion similarly. He would have taken her his own if not for the news of Brandon affianced to her, and later Eddard. When the gates of Winterfell opened and Sansa Stark rode in, clad in black and bright Tully eyes vivacious, he almost saw her mother, and he almost wanted her. Since what comes after a plucked rose is another bud of the same stem.

"And she swore she has been seeing Reek around the castle," Ramsay continued, peering down between his feet, one knee bobbing up and down in vibrations, his eyebrows crumpled in confusion and annoyance. "He's chained in Winterfell."

Roose inhaled. "What would you do now?"

The boy wiped his face harshly and cracked his neck as if it were to give him the answer. And as he calmed reluctantly, he reddened at the request. "If we could have more of the antidote, father, I..." he looked away.

Roose Bolton engaged in the strangeness in his son's gait. Perhaps he was the one losing his mind and not his wife. What an ill-advised son this is, to ask for something daft. "Dorne is almost a sunset away, Ramsay, are you, in any way considering that? And what would you have me request? To have them sail only to deliver a little antidote for you?"

"Not for me," Ramsay threw off a look of despair and anger put to use.

"You've used all the antidote to yourself on your wedding night, Ramsay, I hope you remember, to save you from passing out."

"I only want to ask for help now," the boy stood. The trembling on his palm was something Roose couldn't miss, "You handed out that drug, it was yours to merit. How would anyone know it could rob off someone's sanity?"

Roose Bolton laughed, every chortle of the lungs only made Ramsay's eyes grow wider.

"Ah, Ramsay, the great game player you are. Has she been refusing you? Ah, of course. She would refuse you." He was smirking sadistically from ear to ear that almost moistened the blue pools in his bastard's eyes. "Listen carefully, Ramsay, I've done you a favour. Would you really think I do not know what you are behind closed doors of your chamber? The whole household bloody knows, they bloody hear what you and your bloody whores do. And what would you have me do? Let the North know that you've treated the last Wolf like a dog you are on your wedding night? You'll send the houses at our gates the moment the birds have fled, you bloody fool. So don't you dare pin the blame on me the moment I handed that tonic to you. It would have been tolerable if there was an heir planted in her belly now. Yet more than a fortnight has passed, and here you are forcing yourself on her like the bastard you are. But nothing's coming forth, is it? Am I going to hear you confess impotency now?"

Roose Bolton's last words became a sponge that drained all color in his son's face. He could see the glitter on the edge of his eyes. Alas, he had hurt him again, and for this, Roose was penitent too he almost wanted to rewind the time and placate his son instead. He saw the young boy again, perhaps fifteen summers back: a trembling, timorous wimp with a face wet with tears and snot both, the flaying knife on his scrawny fingers, the blood pool on his feet. _He hates me_. Again Roose considered like the mantra on Ramsay's wedding night. _He will die hating me._

Only silence persisted on each brick and crevice on the hall since then. Ramsay bowed and turned his heels slowly to leave. At this, Roose groaned quietly and shut his eyes, digging in anything he could say to lighten the tension.

"Perhaps..." he started, his voice gnawed with remorse. He wanted to say sorry indeed, but it was a word that never registered in him when he saw Domeric's limp and lifeless body sprawled on his death bed, with the fused bland smell of blood and bowels.

Ramsay paused to acknowledge the halting, but he never looked back.

"Perhaps you ought to take her home now," said father. Ramsay nodded before continuing on his way.

Roose Bolton had been a fool a fortnight ago too, when Ramsay enquired to take his wife back to Winterfell as per request of hers after being exhibited unharmed to the lesser lords. But he thought it an imbecile scheme as he needed Ramsay to pose as his heir in his further affairs as the new Warden of the North. And it started happening, as the rumours began to wander on every wall in the castle now: that Sansa Bolton had been wandering off like a ghost in their midst.

Once she was found trembling on a pile of hay among the stables, dirt and sand muddled in her hair. Five nights later she disappeared for a moon, and how Ramsay squalled at everyone in the castle, threatening to cut off their breasts and balls for the hounds' dinners, if they failed to present her. Only then she was sighted going back to their chamber and slept for two days as if nothing happened, and Ramsay broke. Two orphaned servant girls went missing, only to have their mauled parts decomposing on the forest. The servants said they would hear Sansa crying alone, and oft she would talk to herself. When he enquired the maester to have her be checked for a kernel on her belly, there was none. He remembered the rage that pained on Ramsay's face when he stared at him sullenly with thwarted excitement. Everything then wasn't going as planned. Sansa Stark isn't going on as planned.

And he watched his son, the bastard he both needed and unwelcomed, slowly diminish amongst the shadows that shrouded the hallways.

* * *

 **A/N:** Truly sorry for the delay, dear readers. Have been busy for some time. Just finished my examinations, and now I passed, needed to finish this. Thank you for the continuous support! Hope I could post the latest soon. Be flying off the island for a while for a conference.

Valar Morghulis. Valar Dohaeris.


	18. 17 RAMSAY

_For she was his secret treasure, she was his shame and his bliss._

~ _GRRM. A Storm of Swords_

* * *

He was getting used to the dryness of his mouth and the constant swallowing of nothing but now there was the slime of something thick and the taste of iron between his tongue and palate. Ramsay spat the blood that minutely filled his taste buds and there his body shivered whilst curbing his pained breathing.

It hurt as hell.

 _I'll kill him... I'll kill them all..._

His jaw clenched and again his teeth dug on the wall of his mouth. Sweat made its way to the tip of his nose and stayed stagnant till a bead gathered and dropped off. He let out a quick and dense breath aggrieved with bitter opium and there he felt the weakening of his knees as his hand jutted to the wall on the winding staircase and held himself firmly.

 _I'll kill him... and that rutting pregnant sow..._

 _I'll cut out that worm and feed it to the bitches..._

And there the hand that held himself against the wall formed into a white-boned fist and he smashed it against the brick. Dust made a light parade around the shallow dent and he heard the soft clucking of debris against his boots and stone staircase.

Ramsay almost swallowed his tongue, throttling the urge to roar like a cursed dragon, and a few hot tears escaped his eyes. His mind blazed with double-edged curses as if they were the first and only words he could ever natter. But the worst part was that the stinging on his broken knuckles weren't enough to swap with the anguish that stabs his chest.

Again he saw himself: the real Ramsay he wanted to be strangers with but with hostility gunned on him by the two most imperative people in his life, it just kept embracing him as an old, insensible friend. He breathed in, breathed out, breathed in, and continued so in deep, macabre moods while his forehead rested on the wall. His throat hallowed and threatened a sob but he wouldn't let it. He would die first before he'd hear himself whimper.

When a crash hollered from the chamber, Ramsay threw his sight in, momentarily forgetting his own angst. The curve on the staircase obstructed him to know what has happened, and when another crash—a brittle clay jar—clambered into pieces, followed by a wild shriek, he finally moved up.

Two serving girls and a soldier were crowded on the chamber door. The girls were trembling and almost bloodless, their arms wrapped around themselves and shoulders heaving quickly with another crash from the inside. Ramsay moved nearer, and the servants immediately withdrew with mortified eyes as if he was the sun that warned to blind them.

"My Lord..." the soldier, a middle-aged man with a thick dark beard, recognized him but Ramsay passed on eyes burning.

He saw his wife, his wolf, growling at another soldier attempting to take hold of her arms as she is about to fling another earthen jar. She was who she looked like when he found her wandering on the forest. Her hair was a mesh of red still with the dust and small particles of the woods put together. When the soldier took sight of his master, he quickly held himself back in fearful apology. When Sansa turned and their eyes met, the coals on her eyes were added with fuel. She bared her teeth and pointed a finger at her husband, "YOU...!"

In three rapid steps, she tossed the jar which rolled as cracks on the rugs, and in front of the spectators, Ramsay felt the outraged palm that fiercely smashed on his face.

He flung away but seized the strength not to fall, as the soldier pulled Sansa apart from him and angrily shoved her on the bed mattress. His jaw stung and a part of his eye retracted in blinding pain, momentarily filling the rims with hurt tears. Her nails had scratched on the tip of his lips and he sipped the blood that began to break. Eyes wide open in shock and rage; everyone saw how they turned into cold blue slits which immediately sent Ramsay charging to her who awaited his open, furious fist.

Yet he froze, trembling hand stuck in midair as if gravity was sucked off them in an instant. Ramsay looked down on her, his face tarnished with wrath but which slowly faded at the sight of Sansa's hollow gaze. He could feel the velocity of his heartbeats pounding on every corner of his body and his deep defying breathing.

Sansa's nearly cracked lips were parted and she pierced through his eyes without knowing the effect she impaled on him. Ramsay saw, not Sansa, but another sight below. He saw the same blank stare adhered on his wife and another woman, the dull and sedated faces wrecked with a thousand minutes of psychological and physical torture. The shambled, devastated eyes awaiting death like a better option.

And he withdrew with an embarrassed sigh and the lines of sweat bathing his face.

"LEAVE!"

The soldiers and the serving girls hadn't moved a finger, trying to understand whether the command was meant for them or for his wife. And Ramsay's eyes threw daggers. "Do I need to say it a second time? I hate saying it a second time."

With this they all turned their backs and opted to clear the door, except for one girl which Ramsay halted. She turned, looking down like a bitch with her tail between the legs, and he imagined having an arrow buried on the dark birthmark on her collar bone.

"Draw a bath." He called. She bowed stiffly and stepped back. Again he stopped her. He could feel the fear radiating on her pores and he loved every undulation that she projected.

"Bring warm water first, and a rag."

* * *

He dipped his fingers on the liquid to assure its lukewarm taste and the droplets made a tinkling sound that filled the quietness.

On the corner of his eye he sees her seeing him, snuggled on the pile of feather pillows on the head of their bed. He sat in a tensed, diffident manner on the edge and placed the basin beside her folded legs without seeing the expression in her eyes. When his hands touched her feet, she immediately pulled them away in surprise as if he was a clap of thunder, and wrapped her arms protectively around her knees, stuffing herself deeper on the pillows she was leaning on. He sighed.

Ramsay tried to roll his already rolled sleeves and sweat started to glisten on his brow. This was peculiar, too peculiar for the last time he ever serviced cleaning was on Reek. And it wasn't even sincere: he was only taunting him to ask that he pretend to be someone he was not. But this time, he didn't know what the recipe is in his cauldron of feelings. Shame? Guilt? Pride? It wasn't the best of choices but there certainly was a percent of each.

Earning the courage to look at her, he did and met her big watery eyes: dark at the rims, its pupils contracting at the reflection of him. He looked at the smudge of soil on her jaw and neck.

"It's warm, Sansa," he spoke, referring to the water, "Place your feet on it, will surely help."

And like a toddler, she was slow to receive his message but awhile when he touched her feet again, she moved it herself and he heard her sigh with relief. When her feet were fully dipped, he watched the blood disperse across the tepid water and for a while he decided to be amused. But before arousal would take over his stead, he began to cup the liquid and let it pour across the light wounds. Sansa hadn't flinched one bit, even when his breaths hallowed with his fingers on the abrasions. He began washing the marred skin and more blood reddened the water.

In the fused sounds of cracking firewood and chiming droplets, her voice added weakly, "Where is mother?"

His jaw clenched, marking avoidance off the query that sent his wife running off under the moonlight.

"Where is mother?"

With this he looked up. God why was he such a pussy with words? "She's not here," he heard himself, "She's dead. Quite a time ago."

Ill silence brooded and he need not see her reaction to it and he kept pouring the blood-diluted water on her feet. The wounds began to appear: red and purple lines of carelessness. The water began to turn dark as he stroked on the ankle of her right feet to launder hardened mud. She has soft feet, he thought, a pair of beautiful feet used to glittering boots and slippers as there was no single callus blended in, so supple to the touch he almost wanted to kiss them clean. Why hadn't he noticed these before?

"How?" she asked coldly, "How did she..."

Ramsay sighed, for a moment he considered gagging her instead. "I'll tell you on the morrow."

He was supposed to be safe now as she leaned against the pillows and he found himself wanting her to feel drowsy so she could just shut up. But he was not. It even became a more gauche conversation he only wanted to suddenly vanish from.

"What is that thing you do to me?" Sansa asked with the deepest touch of innocence. "On this bed...?"

He breathed in and his tongue played at the edge of his right incisors. His fingers rubbed softly between her toes as to soften the blooded mud caked on them. The smell of earth and iron lifted around the basin's circumference. Her toes were curling when he tried to clean them. He decided not to answer but she urged on and it began as an irritation now.

"We are married, Sansa, we..." he was cut off with an involuntary sigh because it felt like his heart has just leapt to his throat and bobbed back down, "We do things..." _We just fuck. Oh gods can't it be that easy?_

"We are...?" she sniffled, "But you're a bastard and I don't like you...how can mother approve to this?"

He was slapped inside out indeed and there was the thick feeling on his tongue like he had drank a barrel of Dornish wine, on with a stinging sensation on his neck. He was only thankful there was no one else there as agitation clambered awkwardly on his pores.

"There is nothing you can do about it and your mother is dead, I said awhile ago. Can't you just keep quiet?"

Ramsay grabbed the clean rags beside him and lifted one of her feet. His sudden touch made a fingernail scrape on a deep gash and she flinched. Again the blood greeted and Ramsay grunted as he dipped it back to the stained water.

"You're careless," she added.

"Shut it."

"But you are."

Ramsay gashed his teeth as she let go of her legs and handed out the dry rags which she claimed. He accidentally put force on a gaping wound and sighed. Sansa was biting her lip to stifle a cry and he took to glaring at her. _Don't you bloody go out in the woods and stare at me like that, woman!_

"It hurts." Again she spoke in a breaking voice.

Ramsay slapped his own knee and looked away, "I get it. I know. I know. But you ra—"

"I did not mean this."

He turned back to her. He did not quite absorb that well but she didn't have the time to repeat it. But he didn't want to hear it either, and continued to watch her wipe her own feet like she was putting up a show for him and he wanted to appear like someone who had the habit of missing the point.

The serving girl emerged from the darkness on the doorway, announcing the tub was ready to be occupied.

* * *

Ramsay wound in the tail of the cloth between the coils swathed on his hand. Only now he realized it throbbed and stung like...like the hardened lines on his back. The thick muscles behind him heaved like flaming logs to greet the scars that embraced them.

Once when he was younger, quite younger than Sansa, he entered the castle doors hiding a broken arm under a soiled and torn shirt. He remembered Waldon, a big and burly boy who looked like a son of the ugliest bull instead, with a thick nest of brown hair and eyebrows, a bulbous and freckled nose between bulging brown eyes, and a wide mouth which reminded Ramsay of a wild boar missing tusks. He remembered this bull boy shoving him outside the kennels, muscled fingers closing around his thin, bony neck, with all other peers in an amused riot. He recalled their faces under the grey drizzle, angry and excited to see his nose break, to hear him plead and admit he killed his half and legitimate brother.

When Ramsay was let go after Waldon grinned at his eyes threatening to bleed from pressure, he sucked in a mouthful of air and swung his arm on the other but missed and instead crushed his fist on the bricked wall. The laughter still haunted him like it was stripping him piece by piece, and Waldon kept braying until he pushed Ramsay face down on the mud and stepped on the broken hand like it was a snake's head. Ramsay screamed as each bone and tendon crisscrossed in a flaming ordeal until he passed out, only to be awakened by the kennel master and his daughter. And Ramsay remembered too, how Father had not come visit him on his room when he nursed high fever out of the bruises in his scrawny body. Father was still grieving and irate at the loss of his eldest, even after he had taken his anger out on Ramsay the morning his lawful son gave up life. But what he could recollect most, was dropping the bloody rock from his hand, the same hand that was crushed, and Waldon's brains splattered on the dry forest grass. And as the once-feared baby giant lay helpless with his eyes strained up to his gaping skull, Ramsay looked at the smiling kennel girl. Ramsay hadn't smiled back, but with a whistle, the hungry hounds pounced on big screaming dinner and tore him from skin to bone as he watched without looking away. And it was the first of times that ecstasy crashed on him and a victorious grin swept across his face, like he had just jumped off a cliff and sprouted wings instead to defy the winds of dejection. The second of these times were spent on days and nights fucking the kennel master's daughter.

He thought of the wall on the staircase, a souvenir of his broken fist caused by a perturbing conversation with Father. That dent on the wall would not be noticed, he was sure, like he himself more invisible than air around on the family tree.

The doors creaked and the Sansa walked in like a ghost in a dark robe and stood before the bed. The serving girl who attended to her halted at the door.

He looked at his wife. The red puffy eyes and cheeks told him she had been crying in her bath. She had been crying again and with this he felt fractious. She was looking down shyly but disoriented, probably calculating another time to strike him? He had no idea now. He dismissed the servant, who bowed and closed their chamber door.

Ramsay walked to her after finding the sleeping robe he set out for her, to help her dress and finally rest in the remaining hours of dawn. She stepped back and cringed but her eyes were looking on his feet to anticipate the next nearing. Ramsay's lips pressed at the annoyance of having to scare her even without his motive to do so now.

"Take off the robe and put this on," he told her, almost kindly but monotonous, handing out the thin gown. Sansa still hadn't moved but her eyes were scanning him up and down with lips agape. There was a light purple blotch under her mouth, and a small gash on the side of her discoloured lip.

He sighed and moved behind her so he could only see her tangled mats of damp hair. "Take off the robe now, Sansa. I can't bloody see you,"

He heard the bland sighing, and after which her fingers started to tangle on the knot of her robe and she slowly pulled the cloth belt. Ramsay was slowly watching her, profused with unwanted anticipation as she parted the robe from her chest and started to peel it off her. The moment her shoulders bared and the sweet smell of cinnamon perfume oozed from her skin, every cell on his body pulsated. He sucked in a breath, following the robe that inch by inch exposed the bruises on her flesh painted ivory by malnutrition. She wasn't now as beautiful as when he first set eyes on her. She had lost weight highlighted by the scapulas jutting on her shoulders, the thinned arms and the bony elbows, her ribcage rippling on the sides, the visible bulges of her backbone.

But all of these, and more, had not shelved the desire he felt for her. Her scent had been as vigorous as before, and this was still Sansa Stark, his wife, his wolf...the mother of his unexisting child, and nothing could take it all from him.

Ramsay dropped the sleeping gown and it fell crumpled on his feet instead. His hands wound around her stomach and he closed the space between them. Her nakedness pressed against his body and with that he buried his face on her neck while her damp hair exuded the scent of Mary rose. _I want you._ His own words gushed inside him. _I want you, Sansa._

 _I want your smile. I want your laughter._

He gently pushed her to the messed up sheets and vair on the mattress and she was anything but reluctant. He trained her well, and she had been good to know what he wanted, and has been exhausted resisting him so all she needed to do was lay down to stare at the ceiling until the hot fluid rushes inside her.

 _I want your joys...your pain...your lust._

He bent her forward and he hated how she did so easily. It seemed like crawling on her elbows and resting her head on the sheets have become a routine from a hundred years ago. There was this fire from the pit of his stomach which twisted and burned. He missed her malevolence and defiance, the heat in her eyes as she curses and squirms when he pins her down, even the time she spat on his face and he threw her on the floor so as to rip her clothes off and smouldered them on the fireplace, and since then constantly raped her with a knife on her throat. Myranda was a good fuck, he acknowledged, but she was at a stage play where she willed to his violence but pretended not to. And Sansa's lethal hatred was so pure that only thinking about it would make him release.

Ramsay watched as she waited apathetically. Her breathing was so calm it made him sick. He bent forward too, and held her on the shoulder so as to overturn her and look at her face while his other hand was pressed beside her head. The sheets crumpled more as she followed his lead and she turned to let him catch a full sight of her expression.

It was like looking at frozen lake, her eyes, and looking at an empty abyss too, red at the rims and screaming exhaustion. The embers in them died down and she was no more than a bald sheep than a growling wolf. He caught her trembling sighs as his fingers traced her left eyebrow and cupped her cheek. He felt the cheekbone that was not once there. He tousled his fingers on her hair and noticed its luster had faded and thus the coarseness took over. Its color was autumn no longer but reminded him of rust and dry blood instead. He traced on the collar bone that looked like a valley on a map and a dune on a desert; he could see the grey scar of his teethmark on her nape and others on both breasts which lost the plumpness it had before.

A tear slipped to his fingers. He looked back to her blank eyes only to the welling of them which he was so accustomed with. Her crying had always amused him, because it signified her defeat every after he succeeded spilling his seed inside her and she would only curl on a ball and he would laugh at her silently.

Sansa's almost cracked lips parted with a whisper that brooked no argument. "Do you hate me?"

He froze and his mind started to whirl in an uncontrollable eccentric grimace. Of all things that occurred to him was the way she always gave him an unwelcoming look, and he only had to force feed himself on her to break her. The answer leaked from his lips.

"Yes."

She closed her eyes and sighed with satisfaction from that answer, and without another word she lay like a ball on her side.

 _I hate you...yes._

Ramsay laid himself on the side too to face her still. Her eyes were closed and he wanted to demand them open until he himself should fall asleep. He continued to stare at her, her folded fingers pressed between her jaw and the mattress seemed to have been the most serene he'd see of her, not the crying wench nor the angry mistress. His hand found a way on the curve of her waist and remained there.

 _I hate your beauty... I hate how it makes me worry I'd never see it again and I want to break it._ The shadows began to drape darker on her body she almost looked like a silhouette now. _I hate your inborn kindness, your mirth... how it was wanted by many others, I want to break it. I hate your innocence and how it frets me you will lose it to another. I've always wanted to break you...but..._

Ramsay squinted his eyes to the empty sheets in front of him as he still lay on his side. The fire from the hearth had been extinguished by light pouring from early sunshine. It had been what...an hour or two? He couldn't even recall falling asleep but the bizarre light filling the chamber and the smell of burnt wood had told him he did. He couldn't and didn't want to move yet as his muscles pleaded to rest, but his eyes were fixed on his bow on the carpeted floor and around it the arrows spilled like an accident.

There was a soft pressing on the mattress on his legs. Ramsay laid on his back to see what it was and his eyes dilated. Sansa towered above him with an arrow tight on gripped hands; its pointed edge gawked and sparkled like a serpent baring its fangs.

 _But..._

Once he dreamt of Sansa Stark on a horse on a cold snowy morning. She was riding before him, with her lovely braids of red velvet against the snow and ghostly trees. He called her once, twice, and she turned to him with a honey-sweet smile. She had eyes of crystalline sky which greeted him even without a language, and she waved; gloved hands in the air, and gently placed it on the bulge on her belly.

 _But oh gods..._

He watched the tip of the arrow descend on him swiftly.

 _...what have I done?_

* * *

 ** _A/N:_** _Thank you for the kind reviews and messages, and sorry too for the longest delay ever. Finished this immediately after coming back as there was no pre-written parts of this chapter. I hope you liked it. Valar Morghulis, Valar Dohaeris. I do miss Ramsay Bolton._


	19. 18 SANSA

_I'm a slave to your game,_

 _I'm just a sucker for pain._

 _~LW_

* * *

A torpid whirl dipped on her stomach and she scurried off of him when he let out a terrible squall.

Sansa's color evanesced to only gods know where and her fingers quivered at his pain. She watched him wince like a bitch giving birth, except that he was turning pastel with his right hand clutched on his left shoulder, and an arrow buried on the pillow on the side of his head. Blood began to pool around the area and she didn't actually know what to make of it. Ramsay managed to tip his body away quickly the moment she thrust the arrow supposedly on his chest. And its sharpness bit on the flesh of his shoulder, tearing skin and vein off his left scapula and pinning some on the pillow.

She gulped. It would take months before it scars.

Ramsay let out another blood-curdling scream which rang every alarm bell across her body. His face was bathed in sweat and he lay on the side, and there was this frantic breathing like all oxygen had been sucked off the room. He was dying, she rasped pointlessly. He was dying... _oh gods. Should I...should I be happy now?_

But no. The noise of panic that emanated from him was slowly ebbing and what came out were scarred and rusty bits of...laughter.

Her eyes widened.

Ramsay was still holding on the torn shoulder and his damp bangs lined before his squinting eyes, he let out a cough or two, and while his breathing calmed, his pale lips stretched into a grin. It was a sickening sight that made Sansa frisson with hate, but there evolved a twist in her mind that adored this man. He was smug even with a broken vein; too confident to survive. She heard him groan enough to be heard and he coughed again, and looked at her with his chest beginning to calm.

"Ah...wife..."

His lips split into a weak smirk, "Good morning...too... _aaah!_ " his face contorted whilst lifting himself up higher onto the pillow so she could see him better from where she stood petrified. He sighed coldly and let go of the blooded shoulder, grunting as he pulled the white arm off its sleeve and she took to sight half his lean and rippled body. Ramsay willed to take a handful of the white sheet that was supposed to be a part of the beddings. He brought the fabric tight between the teeth and quickly tore, once, twice, enough to make a bandage, and put pressure on the wound. Sansa was holding on to his every gait, clinging tight to herself while she watched. He never whimpered, nor promised she be fed to his hounds. The only sounds she perceived were low and guttural forces, and something inside her ached to soften his pain. But that was stupid. He never sees her the same, neither felt a hint of pity for her pleas. Let him bleed, let him bleed.

When the sheets were thick and pressured enough on the shoulder, Ramsay laid his head back again. With every blink she could at least see the paleness of him began to fade. Was this how Jeyne saw Ser Beric? The knight was wounded on the melee and blood oozed off him but he rose like a mountain lion to victory. She remembered Jeyne's flushing cheeks, swearing to have gotten pregnant by the mere sights of the knight.

"I see you've...dressed yourself...and gotten me a good breakfast, Sansa..." he spoke in a begrudgingly calm manner, chuckling but immediately grimacing too, "I wonder what lunch...would be..." he turned his head to the side to cough. The arrow dug on the pillow shook tethering with his shoulder and chest. Words have fled her.

"Now..." he breathed out what seemed to be a day's trouble, and wet his lips before swallowing. "What is fucking going on...in that pretty head of yours huh?"

The demand wasn't as menacing as it sounded the previous times he decrees her (mostly about having her take her clothes off and keeping still). She didn't know if it were the weakened structuring of him now, or because she had become dull to his words she didn't care if he'd fling her to the window at that moment.

"You didn't keep your promise," Sansa bleated, her eyes turning dark and snooty. Ramsay stared at her at that like she had just split in two. Slowly he sank on the pillows and turned his gaze away, "Was supposed to, I told you. But Father..."

"I'm going home..." she sliced through. He turned back to her, "Just a few more da— _the hell..._ "

It was Sansa's moment to smirk now, confidence burgeoning like wildfire in her gut. She held the keys in front of him like meat to a leashed and starving dog. "I'm going home now..." she repeated and Ramsay's eyes turned wild as his lips rolled to reveal grinding teeth. When he lifted himself to sit up, he grunted against pain, resolute to the point of tearing himself further to stop her.

Sansa began to move away, her skirts spinning turned him red.

"Come back here,"

She heard him hiss but to no avail. It was not a command he wanted her to shiver at. It was a death threat, and no, she wasn't having that either. And as if to taunt him, she paced quicker towards the door.

"I haven't…had enough sleep, Sansa, _ah!_ " he made a quick leap off the bed, still clutching the poorly bandaged gash, half his shirt hanging off his body. She was already on the door, anticipating still, but careful and wary. Her fingers began to smoothen the latch and a faint grin began to tip her mouth. As if to goad, she even bit her lower lip as the first hinge from the latch squeaked. Ramsay's eyes were wide enough to let her see the storm raging in blue. His glare was enough to thaw the shit-stained castle walls of Moat Cailin. "Sansa…" he growled, enough to send winter to the south, "I'm not asking you again," he pointed a finger at her.

"Come…Back…Here."

But Sansa was a rock. She'd been weeks ago. Who cared when she has become accustomed to such empty words? Her hand finally pulled the latch and would have deftly freed herself but her heart drained blood in split second. A sharp metal sliced lightly through her cheek and rested with a shrill thud on the wood just affront her.

Sansa stared at the arrow which is now firmly planted inches from her face. The impact caused a stinging thumb-length cut on her cheekbone and she touched to wipe the blood that began to faintly leach.

Quickly she turned when the sound of the bow crashed on the carpeted floor, and met a quick-approaching husband who wore the facade of hostility and full-fledged antagonism. Hands grabbed either arms and with a controlled pressure, he banged her lightly against the door to emphasize the insult that coursed through him.

She saw the genuine ire in his cobalt eyes, and swore they almost turned to slits.

"IF I. TELL YOU. TO STAY…STAY!"

The words dripped off him like venom, slowly depleting the equal fury in her mind with every angry whisper. She could imagine him spitting out fire and burning her crisp. Their chests heaved and Sansa realized the vulnerable position she was in. Her eyes fixated on the blotches of red on his feeble shoulder before travelling them to his creased lips, almost lightly colored and coldly fuming. Lips that made her curse her body, folds of lustful pit. _Icy lips…_ she breathed out slowly, _poor winter mouth…_

And she sucked in her husband's breath like it was the only air left in Westeros.

 _Gods, Ramsay…_ she rasped into herself. _You taste like hate…and witchcraft._

She felt him inhale rapidly as her lips clamped into his, moistening his dry mouth the way he does to her on nights she detested knocking on her doorstep. And before he could puff out, she let go, only to close on them again. It all reminded her of woodworm though, and bile rose to her throat. She caught a quick moan from his throat which sent her mind swooping with a clash of devastation and...excitement?

He twisted his head to the side, an angle which had his tongue squirm into her mouth and before it went deep, she quickly let go with a heated sigh.

He tried to chase her lips down, and she got the initial reaction she wanted, smiling evilly to herself. Ramsay's mouth were left agape and swollen with foiled lust like she was the last drop of water on his wineskin. But his face, her skin heated, gaping silently at the faint color on his cheeks. He was flushed, he was…blushing…faintly blotched.

It wasn't something anyone can witness in Ramsay Bolton in a lifetime.

When he tried to resume, she quickly resented. "I'll be good…this once."

Ramsay withdrew his face from hers, and she saw a bullet of sweat trickle on his left temple. _Sansa, you harlot!_ She met his blue pools, and repeated the promise. "I'll be good…I won't fight…"

The widening of his eyes sent her to tremors. _No, no, no…_ "But promise you won't touch me again...unless…I tell you to, until I…want you to…" _Silly little whore._

"You failed to take me home," her voice straightened before he thinks of plunging her into the bed, "I'm giving you this second chance…to…to make a man off your words. I won't fight…"

She waited for him to think, which she was thankful he was doing it not while tearing the dress off her. Her stomach churned a thick flavour of self-loathing. Who was she kidding with? This is Ramsay Bolton. He would say yes like when he promised he won't hurt her, and without a sunset past he'd already bitten her nipple.

To her slow dismay, the fists that clutched both her wrists loosened and she could free herself if she'd force to. _He's…he's refusing…_ Ramsay's lips straightened, suddenly she felt him cool again. Is she this unconvincing now? Was her beauty not demystifying enough? Though there was a pit in her head that screamed out relief she wouldn't be enduring hours of rape, there was also a small twitch in it that riots at her inability to seduce him, him who is vigorous with a bedwarmer. Was she ugly now? Too skinny?

Suddenly her hand jutted out to his loose palm and placed it to her collarbone, feeling the calluses brush down the hallow tip of her cleavage above an unribboned collar of her nightdress, and pressed on her left breast. She growled at herself with hatred, but tipped her head behind to lift her chest whilst his hand stayed in place. The moan that escaped her throat was scripted, and bitter. "Isn't it sweet?" She saw the Adam's apple on his thickening neck bob up and down. The fingers on her breast began to tighten.

"Didn't you want me…willing…?" _Oh gods, stop…stop it, strumpet!_

Ramsay breathed out and looked to the side, and she could almost see the twists and turns of the veins in his head, contemplating. Her mind snapped to catch him before her nipple started to harden, and led the same hand on his favourite part of her…down…her navel constricted with irk…down between her slightly parted legs, and she had his quick glance at where his hand gloriously led itself. "Use me, Ramsay…" the bitterness filled her mouth, like she was drinking from a chamber pot, "I'll be good…I won't struggle…who knows," she gulped at the tightened knot on her brain, "…You can now put a child in me..."

The cloth atop her privates crumpled under his hand. The idea of impregnating her always sent father and son into a frenzy. She knew their efforts. She knew from the ill-tasting teas and brews from gods know where, that tasted like roasted cockroach, that the maids were giving her, her constant visitations to the maester; her glee when they'd find out she failed to conceive and— _oh…_ she swallowed: feeling a finger slide across the fabric covering her _there_. Once it slid, twice, like he was feeling for something. _No…no…please no…I take my words back…N—_

A gasp escaped off her constricting throat when his lips crushed on hers, wide and hungry, careless like the tongue that began to flick in and fill her mouth. Her chest began to heave as air left her corners, even more when she felt his palms close in either jaw. His tongue dug in as if it would reach her throat, deep…but calmer than the usual. Slowly he released her, and she almost forgot to breathe back. His sighs were still warm and wanting on her mouth. He looked at her lips, kissed it almost tenderly, and up her eyes. She could lose herself in the ocean of his navy stare.

His words heated her, but unlike other times it hadn't heated her with disgust. It was…plain different. The sentence played on her buffering mind, again and again like echoes overlapping each other, "I do…I…I…want you…" he breathed into her lips once more before closing in the space between their faces, "…willing…"

Hands clawed on her sides, stroking her bony curves twice before lifting her hips up and pressing her against the door, forcing her to wrap her legs awkwardly around his hips.

 _Willing…_ the word let loose around her chest, controlling her hands to the back of his head as she tried to balance her being lifted from the floor. _Willing..._ she felt him tug her hands off his back and her wrists were pinned on the door like she was about to be crucified. What in seven hells was so arousing with her always pinned down? No answer came though, only the wild, dry kisses on the muscle of her throat. They felt like rose stem against her skin, prickly and rough like an oasis-less desert. When she sensed his mouth nearing her breast, the initial fury urged her to want to push him away suddenly but then she had to keep still. _Just one more..._ she mandated the warrior in her... _just another, and then—gods!_ Her chest tightened with the bite above a nipple, even with the thin cloth draped over it, she felt the sting. Her wrists were let loose, and so were her thighs when his fingers impatiently lifted her hem, threatening to tear it a second it won't come off. She was still pressed between his torso and the door, her legs forcedly wound around his waist, and now his hands were on either sides of her hips as the dress' hem gathered around his wrists.

She had to cling on his shoulders when he pulled her off the door and carried her to the sinful, messed up sheets. She lost count how many nights she cried on that bed which had been witness to her tears and sweat, and blood. And seeing it again sent her eyes filling with the salty fluid. Will this bed witness her getting filled in the belly this time?

Her buttocks landed the mattress, and Ramsay tugged the night dress off her, spilling her hair around the shoulders and concealing bits of her breasts. Nakedness wasn't a stranger to this evil chamber. Even without his command, she laid still now, staring at the cobweb on the ceiling, willing herself to be strong. The mattress below his knees on either sides of her hips bounced and she deciphered him pulling his own shirt and tossing it on the floor. It was as if his shoulder had not bothered him at all, like it had already scarred. Of course, it doesn't bleed now, she thought. His blood is filling in somewhere down between his legs. _Disgusting._

She was expecting to hear what she dreaded hearing most of all, something that always came off after he peeled his shirt: the tinkles of his belt buckle clambering on the floor. She waited as her breathing came rapid and her eyes shut tight, letting out a drip of tear. Oh if only the ears could be shut voluntarily like eyes.

Instead there was none, and she opened her eyes to him who was looking down on her too. The face spoke of blurred conscience, the blue pools were sparking with doubt and it was not one she has ever seen before. Sansa saw his gaze feed on her face, to her chest, and there. His bangs were damp scattered between his eyebrows, and to her surprise he lowered himself so as to fill his lips below her navel. Sansa gasped and felt her thigh muscles constrict as his mouth went lower. _No..._

"Stop..." she whispered. She didn't like this. She didn't like where it was leading to. But he continued on and her pupils dilated. "Stop that..." she lifted herself to give up the challenge before he'd go down further, her elbows supporting her. The view of his crown between her legs made her quiver like hell.

"RAMSAY STO—" Sansa breathed out what seemed to be a fusion of sigh and growl as her head rolled back and her fingers clutched the sheets and it seemed like all energy was sucked out of her...to the mouth that clamped on her warm folds. _Oh..._ her own mouth parted for air and she inhaled and inhaled but nothing went out in return... _oh gods...is that a tongue on me?_ The thought dissipated in her hardly, she couldn't believe it, everything seemed faux she almost wanted to see for herself, for that warm organ slowly sliding upwards to the nub. Once...twice...deep, then shallow. Her eyes filled with hot tears. What else would it be filled with anyway? But these were not tears of pain, nor sadness. It was a suddenly different elation crashing down on her and spreading on her fingertips, making her toes curl.

When her chest began to ache, she let out a sigh that made her eyelids weak. _Bastard, what in the realm..._ before she knew it her shoulders were back on the sheets once more as if they were laid down voluntarily... _are you doing?_ She couldn't believe the small groan that left her throat when a pair of lips closed in on her rose and seemed to pull her out of the room. It moved and twisted in angles that she couldn't explain why it sent her whizzing away, and...wanting to stay longer. Another pressure on her voice box began to swell, and she tried to stop it from releasing but _Oh gods..._ it went out initially as a trembling sigh but when there was the sudden suck on her nub, the sigh became a moan even she was shocked to hear. _He's drugged me again..._ her half-closed eyes tried to pry open but what moved was her lower lip which she bit down as if he'd commanded her so...but he hasn't said a word. There was pain that began to grow deep, like it was coming from her ovaries... _gods is that even possible? Am I getting pregnant now?_ But it was a pain that she began to...welcome? Anticipate? _Gods damn you!_

Sansa let out a growl instead, heaving her chest up when his hands wrenched her thighs wider and towards her. And there was something syrupy that slid off her spot which she didn't know what was, filling her with shame. _Stop it stop it stop it...!_ She meant to say the words, shaking her head slowly, but when his tongue swirled on that fluid like he was sipping froth from ale, what came out of her throat were gurgles she couldn't comprehend, like a baby babbling. She began to breathe fast, not being able to contain it anymore, especially the stinging on her chest and the throbbing on her nipples like it was about to burst. _Milk?...Oh you stupid girl! No...yes. There now...deeper. Ah! Stop it, Sansa! Do not...enjoy this...madne—ooohh._ She suddenly surged forward to see what cacophony was happening there and her world came crashing down on her. The ebony top of his head between her legs, with her hand clutched on his hair(she forgot how that hand got there too), was one of the sweetest evil sights she bore. She suddenly felt beautiful again.

Ramsay was being good to her, she couldn't believe it. She prayed whoever filled his shell would be trapped inside him like she wished that head between her legs would be trapped there forever. This was the... _best_... _barbaric_ feeling that ever reigned on her since time immemorial. And hate began to lush within her, hate for herself when she didn't resist the traitor mouth hungrily fused in hers, pulling out her tongue like it almost ripped off. When she couldn't say no to the hands that roved her body, that squeezed the suppleness of her breasts. When she opened herself for him, digging her nails on his back and throwing her head against to the sheets when he plundered on her hips deeper than the Trident that cuts into Riverrun. She felt him for the _first time_. She felt every pulse and every throb and every bit of aggravated worship he wanted her to feel. She felt his ache for her, his lust, and confused cruelty. She heard obsession silently screaming in and out of her smoothly.

And she heard herself wanting him too, when Ramsay's forehead was pressed into hers, their sweat mixing thoroughly like dew, and his mouth was sighing on her full lips. There was something building deep within her, like that pain when his lips rammed on her wetness, and it was making her breathing tremble she wanted to climb to heaven and get lost there. And as if he anticipated this to happen she let him see her face crumple and her body writhe in pleasure. _I'll be good..._ her own words burrowed into her as she betrayed herself... _I won't fight..._

 _I want you willing..._

Now that she did, he will never see it again...

Her private part sopped and she settled for that hot fluid that permeated in. His chest was heaving against hers, his face buried on her neck and for a while she stared at the ceiling whilst her fingers brushed on his moist lower back. Ramsay was well-built, she reckoned, letting the smoothness thrill her. His muscles were perfectly weighed on him like a puzzle piece on their right places. She closed her eyes when her fingertips ran on the moist bandage on his shoulder. He flinched. The pain must have come under him again. The things they do, breaking and healing each other and confining themselves in denial that the other was beautiful...but he made her feel like a goddess worthy of worshipping...for just a few minutes.

Ramsay rolled out of her slowly and she sensed the warm fluid ooze out. He glanced at her for the last time before walking out of the bed. She didn't see him. She doesn't want to and instead continued to lay on the damp sheets whilst hearing him fumble for shirts and buckles. On the corner of her eye she sees him dress himself, slowed by the injury almost, but silent like death. He sat on the edge of the bed and bent away from her to pull in the boots. When all was set and the only thing left was to open the door and go out, Ramsay remained sitting there, and Sansa received the words unspoken.

He stood and walked to the door and she didn't make a sound when the latch opened. He turned to her.

"Get ready. We leave on midday."

She blinked when the door was left with a heavy thud. In a few moments, she heard the horses and carriages being groomed for what seemed like a journey. But the vigor she had on finally abandoning this room and this castle turned to ash. This was it, supposed to be, she was going home. Ramsay is taking her home.

Sansa closed her eyes.

No. She was home just a few breaths ago. She filled the nostalgia of home in him without his knowledge of it. She felt protected, and truly wanted despite the marring that eroded her body, despite her not seeing herself desirable. That was the home she was looking for and not even living for a hundred years in Winterfell could fill in that void.

* * *

 **A/N:** Sorry for the delay! Waging war with schedules and time is such a hassle. Will reply to your reviews and PMs as soon as I can. For the meantime, I hope the wait has been filled. Thank you for the support! Keep reviewing.


	20. 20 ROOSE-SANSA

_It's all right inside my head._

 _The words that I should have said._

 _And as I drown in my regrets._

 _I can't take back the words I never said._

* * *

"Have you talked to her?"

Roose Bolton basked in the silence of the deaf son across him. The only sound that dappled his ears were the slapping of snow against the semi-leather tent that concealed them. The wind had been unruly by late afternoon they had to start building camp. And all the while he had been stealing glimpses at Ramsay since the portcullis rattled chains and their horses fumbled through. He noticed the imbalance on his son's shoulder, how he tries not to put force on the arm that tethered to it. A wound, father supposed. _From where?_ Ramsay was a boy of delinquent fights. He'd been a subject to broken noses and fits of wounded, purpled eyes growing up with Domeric. Sometimes it intrigued him, most often he didn't care.

He eyed the capon frozen on its gravy in Ramsay's untouched plate. It almost looked like man's flesh within the shadows that filled their space, with a pale light coming from the cracked glass lamp on the corner of the small table. The only thing that roused Ramsay was the chalice on his fingers. He'd almost looked ridiculous in the silence that filled his shell, staring at a void in front of him, with the rim of the goblet between his lips for hours now.

"I supposed not, or if it was so, it didn't went well..." Roose sighed as he washed his mouth with mulled wine and forced a burp, his small eyes squinting almost looked like lines now. The wine was cold as the air around them was freezing too. The wrinkles on his temples creased deeper in the dark. "You've been at that goblet like it had lips against yours."

Now where did that come from? _How painful would it be to be denied?_ Roose was never denied. Only one woman denied him, and had he not forced himself on her, he wouldn't be facing this boy in front of him now. He remembered his pregnant butterball of a wife and for a moment felt worried for her.

Ramsay's mouth pursed and moved the goblet away from his face, his eyes acquainted with indifference but Roose detained the glint of sadness the way his son blinked twice. He wanted to talk the boy out of it, yes, he wanted to. He wanted to know what colors paint the misery in his blue eyes. But he didn't want the customary awkwardness that would fall on him when he'd feel the anger surge in. And well, what else to put both of them off the ugly stillness but their route before reaching Winterfell?

"I suppose you still know your purpose why we're taking the long circuit, Ramsay?" Roose told, "Making an heir isn't your onl—"

"—Crystal clear."

Roose's shoulders fell as his gaze nailed on the face that seemed to bear a century's worth of war. Ramsay still never returned the look, and instead he stood with the goblet still warm between his fingers. Groggily would be the best word to fill him in. He never took his cape from where it lay crumpled over his bow, and Roose felt the huff of ice that blew in his face when his son pulled the tent covers to free him off the space. To piss? To fuck? None of it mattered. Roose wouldn't have minded anyway. He realized that when Ramsay's warmth finally perished.

* * *

She tightened the furs around her when the door of the litter creaked and the gush of cold wind breathed in. The fire from the lamp flickered and danced and Sansa watched the shadows displace themselves instead of gazing at the figure that stooped in. Her nose cringed at the smell of ale and she could hear her stomach churn instead. She didn't tip her head to where the shaking of the litter came from, and instead kept staring at the tendrils of ice on the dull window glass. They almost looked like fingers overlapping each other, concealing the darkness that tended the outdoors. When the howling of wind was muffled and the figure that entered the litter settled across her side, she wanted to disappear.

He cleared his throat, and the sound sent a minor jolt on her shoulders. She only wished he hadn't seen it behind the furs that she was heavily wound in. He loved seeing her frighten.

"...Are you not..." Ramsay's voice was deep and almost, Sansa bit her tongue, almost sorrowful. Oh she feels the same. An ache pounded in her stomach, something she pulled out from yesterday morning when he...

"Are you not really going to ask where we are...?"

She swallowed without looking at him. "I know. Deepwood Motte." _Stop staring. Stop it._ She breathed out, almost trembling but hid it with a movement of her knees being drawn nearer towards her chest. She felt the room vacuumed off air and she fancied clawing out of the litter and be buried in snow instead. In the corner of her eye she saw him wipe his face and heard him inhale sharply. _Leave some air for me, you selfish brute._

"I...need to do this first. Then I could take you home."

 _Oh Ramsay..._ Sansa closed her eyes. She loved the taste of genuineness sprinkled in his voice she almost wanted to lick it off his throat. The fondness of home had overwhelmed her. Winterfell. But still she couldn't deny the sudden gush of nostalgia that washed over her at the bite of home he let her in when, for the first time immemorial, he had been intimate with her. Intimate...as in lemon-cake-at-home-intimate. Her childish soul had taken over her again, and why not...it had been a million years ago when that childish soul waved goodbye but has detoured to her. But she had to contain it nonetheless. This is a dangerous feeling. _He's playing with you, Sansa. He'll bait your trust and sooner will lock you in a dungeon for the rest of your miserable life._ She shuddered. "Do what, exactly?"

Sansa didn't want to, but she did as if her eyes automated themselves to clutch a split-second sight of him and oh gods, the sparkle on his lips caused heat around her neck and she swiftly stole the glance away. He burst in a quick exhale and she heard him crack his fingers, trying to answer in the best possible state.

"This Lord Glover, he..."

She materialized the sigil. Silver fist glove on scarlet. A house sworn to Winterfell. Lord Robett and Sybelle Glover. What happened now? Ah yes, over that dinner with the lesser lords, she recalled them mumbling over his incredulity and scepticism towards the Boltons taking over the North. She swallowed.

"My father..." Ramsay continued, cutting off her thoughts. "He wanted to have that gloved fist smacked on their throats."

 _An execution._ Sansa quickly stiffened and her skin turned into a mat of ice. Winter has befell on her heart and the ashes quickly recovered the Sept of Baelor, the sticky drops of red on Illyn Payne's sword, the riot and the joy in Joffrey's sadistic smile. When the first fill of tears threatened her eyes she clenched her teeth and breathed in sharply. "Why?"

She grasped the stunned aura of Ramsay at her question. She sounded more like a knight than a lady this time and for that he was taken back.

"They're the only house left who hasn't recognized _our_ power. What do you expect?"

"They're sworn to Winterfell."

"They're sworn to the Star—"

She pinned him the look of angry approval. "Yes, Ramsay. They are. And you go over killing those who have the stiffest knees and questioning a loyalty that you should be impressed about and go courting instead."

Several seconds of gauche silence reigned over. Sansa was every inch the queen she was groomed, and even she was beginning to be afraid of herself. She looked at Ramsay Bolton, the man who had been stealing bits and pieces of her sanity through her body parts, and recognized the ill discomfort of himself on such a stature. The man is a brute, and a rapist yes, but he isn't stupid. Back in Dreadfort she heard him often on discussions of attack tactics. She sees him running fingers on the map and plotting points over mulled wine. He is a bastard, but he can be a king, with the right manipulations...and affection.

"What better way would you suggest, then?" He finally sought her. _Now he's talking._ She looked far through the snow-dirtied glass window and for a time the blood of her Father coursed through her. _Better be loved._ She recalled Father's words. _Better be loved than feared._

"Forgive."

The wind whispered malady outside and she could hear it clearly. It wasn't a word that the Boltons are accustomed to. It wasn't an act that enlists in their sigil. For years and years Dreadfort had been a home of unforgiveness. Would Ramsay be the first to break tradition? Sansa closed her eyes and in a fill of surrender, she wished he would be. Her husband. Her _forgiving_ husband. A _forgiving_ Bolton.

And yet her hopes melted like snow in summer when she heard his sarcastic chuckle. The same sound from his throat whenever she whimpered and pleaded for him to stop at nights he was too drunk to slow himself down.

"And what would I have from that, eh? They'd think me a fool for loosening the noose around a traitor's neck."

Her mind flared. "A traitor? You call a house loyal to Winterfell, a traitor? Oh Ramsay." She looked at him, grasped the sight of him swathed in pale light and his blue eyes almost greying. "Beware the friends you made so easy...those houses that had the softest knees have the softest bend of loyalty. Forgive. You will be surprised how it turns out good for you." And with that she moved her sight away again, disheartened and melancholic. A soft sad queen who, at a dire moment, ached for his trust...and arms.

Sansa closed her eyes and felt the litter shake as she envisioned him leaving. She heard the door squeak and close, and left a void of want deep within her soul.

 _Bastard._

* * *

 **A/N:** What else to say but Sorry? It were truly death-defying months that passed. I am hopeful the loads will be lighter this time. Thank you for the encouragements. I've posted two chapters today. _Valar morgulis._


	21. 20 RAMSAY

_Be my friend_

 _Hold me, wrap me up_  
 _Unfold me_  
 _I am small and needy_  
 _Warm me up_  
 _And breathe me_

* * *

 _His face fell twisted to the side and numb._

 _He heard his sullen exhale and the throbbing of his chest. His father fuming and his fist still curled after the thundered blow. His sight was beginning to blur...with tears? And it hurt. Not his face. Not the tiny electric shocks trickling on his cheekbone. Not the pounding on his eye. But his throat hallowing and the caving of his chest does. Yes, gods. It hurts. No rage nor any other emotion showered him. Only hurt. Hurt that emanated through the walls of the great Winterfell hall. Hurt that laughed at his birth and cursed his being. Bastard._

 _And then he raised his watery eyes to tiny footsteps that halted._

 _Sansa Stark was white as snow. Her hair was sunset, her eyes were frozen lakes, her lips a bounty of pale velvet. She almost resembled a corpse now staring bewildered at him. At them. A beautiful corpse in a glass casket._

 _"Take him to my chamber..."_

 _His lips quivered at her voice which almost shrilled, and he wanted to hold her like she was the mother he had been missing all his life, before the maids began to lead him away and he couldn't do anything but consent. Everything faded into whispers and he wanted to disappear in the abyss of dreams. I want Sansa..._

 _I want...Sansa..._

* * *

He awoke dreaming of her fingers on his jaw and his lips on her forehead. And it was too good a dream, too bad a reality. They have never been that gentle, have they? They were abstracts of insanity and unhealthy, dysfunctional sexual urges. He thought of her every second since that morning until his breeches tighten. He thought of her writhing under his spell when he tasted her fully. Every twist of her neck and every drop of her sweat sent him in a whirl of paradise. And oh _gods._ The sounds she made was enough to bury him in blistering pleasure. She was shy...but sexy. He still recalled glimpses of her gaping lips, the sheen perspiration on her collar bone, the long marvellous legs wrapped around his waist. The smell of wine would lead him back to the folds of her rose. He'd bite his lips and try to save every salty-sweet taste that might have left there. Because she'd made him promise not to touch her again if she'd be willing. And yes he always wanted her willing. He wanted her to embrace his twisted ways. He wanted her hating him but he'd always thought of releasing when she'd love him instead. The thought made him sigh whilst teeth chattering.

The castle was glum as mud leaked underneath his horse's hooves. He looked around the grey and black hoods that surrounded them as they parted to make a way for him. His brows were creased, eyes stiffly moving from one face to another. Some stared at him with daggers as others looked away. The air was a pungent smell of decay and hate...and execution. He wasn't there to do the deed. He was there to represent his father, and it was a thing that he would so love to do: to stand and be recognized as the heir despite the full knowledge that behind the smug gait he wore, everyone still knows he is a bastard.

And there he was, in the middle of the courtyard, a burly man who Ramsay himself has first set eyes on. A decade older, perhaps, with thin and almost greying hair, eyes squinting and glaring at the same time. Robett Glover stood without raising his head to Ramsay but eyes boring an inflexible raft. The black furs around his shoulder were unwashed, ragged and greasy, giving Ramsay the impression he hasn't even bathed overnight. For a man who's about to die, what use would bathing be anyway. Unless he would bend the knee and offer transport of his loyalty from the Starks to the Boltons then probably he can bathe this night.

A row of Bolton men charged in after he halted. Their boots splattered the mud and hay that stacked the ground and surrounded their perimeter. Lord Glover looked swiftly on each side, a hint of surprise crumpled his once proud face.

Harald Karstark has been standing there edgily, his patience dwindling every minute wasted. Too eager, Ramsay looked down on him from his great horse, _too eager to please Father more than I_. He remembered Sansa's grimace at the first sight of the man. _Another traitor to her house._ He wondered if Karstark was willing to execute him instead of Glover, since every right hand man of his Father itches to place the bastard aside.

Karstark's face struggled with showing compassion. He looked on the guilty and Ramsay watched on imagining himself massacring all these people instead to finish the crumple on the Northern map.

"By power vested in me, for the last dire time, the Warden of the North demands your allegiance. Kneel."

Glover spat. "Tell your Warden to come break my knees himself. The North belongs to the Starks."

"The Young Wolf is gone. The Crown has given the North to Roose Bolton."

"Aye the Young Wolf is gone: butchered by that Traitor you call your Warden."

Ramsay stirred. "The Young Wolf is gone because of breaking his word and made ties to a...yes. A _foreign whore._ A man not respecting the tradition of pact does not deserve honor."

"And neither does a bastard married to a Stark does."

Ramsay frowned, and after which gave a conceited grin shaking his head. "My wife wants me to forgive you."

"Aye. She reflects her father's mercy. If it were today I lose my head, it would be for my house and for her."

And it was the signal that lit Karstark to excitement. "Aye if it's so you wish." Behind him two other soldiers came forth: one who carried a great sword that sent the crowd tittering, and another who placed with a thud the ironwood stump. Even Ramsay's horse tried to whisk away at the sound of steel kissing away its scabbard. Karstark was beaming with glee as a soldier forced Glover's head down the stump, red and glaring and mouth filling with spit. He watched the face of a man whose life is about to end. There was courage, indeed, and every bit of pride, but he fed on the fear that radiated.

And so he waited for the last words with boredom. But it wasn't happening. Something stirred among the crowd which send Karstark grinning maniacally. Ramsay's eyes fixed on a boy that was led in the middle of the square, about seven or eight, black-haired, scrawny and seemingly innocent of what was happening.

"Come here, boy," Karstark demanded. Soldiers led the child and to Ramsay's disclosure, the great sword was given for the boy to hold. The boy held the hilt and jerked down as the sword was left in his hand. Some of the men sniggered, and Ramsay would have been, too, if it weren't for the memory lane he was being sucked into.

Glover struggled between two soldiers, his eyes now crammed with rage and tears. All Ramsay could comprehend now was the indecipherable stutters of him not wanting the boy to be present on his own execution. His own jaw fell, though, when Karstark held both the boy's hands with the sword hilt between and poised to help the blade fall on his father's neck.

"Your father has been a bad man, boy," Karstark whispered in the boy's ears and it sent the chills down Ramsay's spine instead. _He can't..._ Karstark now faced Glover tearing on the stump. "Be a man and help me take off his head, will you?"

The boy began to cry, irritating Karstark as he tightened the grip on the boy's hands. "Shut it!"

"Gawen..." Robett Glover whispered loud enough, his cheeks reddening but all can see his struggle to keep calm. "Son...do it. Be brave...do it."

When the boy shook his head wildly, Glover tried to raise his voice, "Do it or they will kill you too, and your mother and sister," he exhaled coldly, "Do it, boy!"

And at that Ramsay Bolton cowered. His depleted haughtiness even crumpled further and his soul fell for that boy. All he could see now was himself and the flaying knife in his trembling fingers, his father watching from a corner, and the weak, skeletal woman lying feebly affront him. None among these people knew the devastation that crashed his core and turned his heart into ashes. To hold the weapon and mutilate a person of your flesh and blood. To hear them scream and have it be trapped and replayed during sober nights. To see the look in their eyes, a look that still spoke of love and forgiveness despite your blade stuck between layers of their flesh. Oh gods they never know...how it can wreck your psyche and mold you into an even viler monster which manifests every single second without even the slightest hint of arousal.

And then there was the ringing on his ears and in his head was a dissonance of tolling death bells. He began to shiver and his chest tightened whilst his breathing trembled. Horror was the only spirit in his eyes. All the while he watched in slow motion and muffled sounds the son about to behead his father. The blade swooshed up, the boy snivelled, and Glover howled with shut eyes. The crowd began to wail.

He remembered her. He remembered killing _her_ and his heart violently tore to pieces.

"STOP!"

The great sword hung up the air.

The turmoil among the witnesses died down at the dense order. Only the horses' breathing was left audible and so was the start of soft rapping of the rain. Glover was breathing violently and tried to peek unto Ramsay Bolton to make sure the voice he heard was truly commanded by the Warden's heir.

Karstark's face hardened and Ramsay saw the revolt that screamed in his pores. Every inch of the executioner bellowed with begrudging obedience. He lowered the great sword uncomfortably. "My Lord?"

Even Ramsay himself couldn't identify where the strength to rebel against his father's orders came from. He himself was resolute on the said execution. He wanted to see this beheading, his stomach once twisted in glee he even wanted to do it himself if not for the damn henchman. He was made for _this_. He was built and _raised_ for this.

But _what in seven hells just happened?_

"You're making a mistake, my Lord." Karstark's whiskers almost stood in contained anger, "This man is to be executed today in defia—"

"I know what I said. Let the boy go." Ramsay's teeth chattered. He could feel his heartbeats break his throat, and electric spasms filled his fingertips which he tried to hide beneath leather gloves. He turned to the soldiers. If they huddled surprise beneath their hard faces, they were good at hiding it. A Bolton never turns away from an execution. "Ready your horses. We leave for Winterfell now."

Karstark stirred and filled his Lord with a poisonous glare. Ramsay could feel it despite detouring his horse to leave and fly off the mockery. _Leave. Leave now. These slithering shits think you a coward._ His leathers tightened around his stiff body as he made way among the people and near the gate.

"Lord Bolton will hear of this!"

Ramsay halted as if the reigns on his palms pulled back on its own. Immediately he wanted to pluck out this man's eyes and feed them to the crows. He twisted his head to the side, enough so half of him could see what was behind.

"I am _a_ Lord Bolton." It felt like nettles in his tongue, but honeydew too. He ensued on his way. "We leave now. If you let me say it again, I will cut out that tongue of yours and nail it on your father's tomb, you understand?"

He had no time to see the acrid face that he threatened. He'd be wasting efforts to argue further and so he rode out sanctimoniously like a bird in the clouds. But deep within him there swelled a want to know if what he did was right. He wanted someone to tell him it wasn't stupid at all...

That it wasn't stupid to save a boy from the nightmares that would haunt him after he killed his parent, guiltily chewing bits of his sanity and sending him into bursts of inhumane thoughts along the years. It would be ugly...as ugly as his years growing up with the thought.

At the whiff of air and the rain beginning to moisten his face, he felt free at last. The camp he was left with started to dampen, and men began to roll their tents at the urgency of leaving.

Ramsay looked around for something he wanted to see but does not know.

And he found it. He knew he found it when, at the sight of the window on a small carriage, he saw the blurry but noble face of his wife. Her hair glowed even in the gray. For once they locked in a brief stare before she barricaded herself behind the curtain.

And Ramsay swore he saw Sansa smile.

* * *

 **A/N** : Thank you for the patience. I'll try my best to update within the week. Keep reviewing. Disclaimed on the true book events between House Glover and Bolton. Please bear with me. :) Thank you once again.


	22. 21 MYRANDA-SANSA

_Grace is just weakness_

 _Or so I've been told. I've been cold. I've been merciless._

 _But the blood on my hands..._

 _scares me to death._

 _-J.Y. I'll be Good_

* * *

Oh she missed him.

She missed him so bad her insides twisted and heat clamoured under her skin at the rattle of Winterfell's portcullis. Her mind snapped with mad excitement like a sailor's wife about to ease the turmoil of years apart from her sea-voyaging husband. Her soul began to magnet its shattered pieces back together and claim a self-repair. She missed him so bad she trembled at nights in irate tears curling on her bed and touching her lips mimicking how Ramsay used to ransack her mouth. She touched her own body imagining it were his hands on her perked nipples until it hurt the way she wanted it, on her moist and aching privates the way she wanted it, until she'd reach the vortex and taste blood from the walls of her mouth: screaming and panting and moaning his name like salvation. And then she'd wail like a banshee on loose.

Still, no matter how she pleaded and whispered like a lunatic for him to materialize beside her, she knew his soul had gone out to the Stark bitch.

Ramsay Bolton is finally married. And oh gods she could only smell poison in the air they breathe at that fact. No, she closed her eyes, _he's mine and I'm his... only I could please him..._ But no, she does not only crave for his sexual sadisms. Myranda is in love with him she'd kill a generation of Starks to rewind time before Sansa crossed their once-impregnable dimension.

Myranda stood frozen at the ramparts, her fingers almost glued to the bricks and watery eyes staring down on each rider galloping in the courtyard. Her chest hallowed like a dry brook and her tongue swelled, one leathered rider, another, and another...until her pupils widened at the glimpse of his dark hair and she writhed behind a pillar. She pressed her back on the cold coarse bricks and sighed embracing herself. A gruesome chill swept through her.

She did not want him to come home.

Not now when Roose Bolton sits agitated waiting with his claws scorching and ready to flay his son alive.

The Warden was sleepless and brutal with words. Three days and nights he walked restlessly, mouth tight and eyes burning, and heaven could not please him nonetheless, neither was the pellet tucked in Lady Walda's belly. Finding Rickon Stark invisible on the cellars sent a dozen guards to the flaying poles and the castle drowned in tumult. Myranda herself was beaten as castigation to the loss, and for plainly being there idle at the time the child was taken. Lord Bolton promised gold and silver, even a seat on the council, to whomever takes the Stark boy back.

Only death awaits Arym and Reek now, their traitor's crosses have been furnished a great deal of effort. All these, added by the raven that perched two nights before that Lord Glover was still breathing, rests in Ramsay's bloody head.

She sniffed and sighed on her palms as if it would have made anything less godforsaken. Once more she twisted her neck to catch sight of her love descending from his horse flaccidly. His hair had gone untrimmed perhaps since they left Winterfell to be wed. Dark stubble sprinkled above his lips and chin and making him look as if he'd aged three summers in a night. She noticed the dark shades under the rims of his eyes, and his cheekbones had surfaced beneath leaned jaws. He was lightly moving and she credited it to the pounds he lost. She could almost smell the anxiety hormones that perfumed him, and her body twinged to comfort the distress that he was radiating. Had Sansa been refusing him...? No, she could not...she wasn't stupid enough to defy an obligation, would she? Myranda almost smiled at the lies she wanted to placate herself with. Even if she were to die as Ramsay's bedwarmer she'd dig a thousand graves to be so.

When the wheels of the litter rolled in, the men stirred. Myranda shivered at the hasty envy that stabbed right through her chest. The litter halted with the horses' sniggers, and Myranda swallowed the hurt when Ramsay turned his neck to see the litter door open. She pressed her lips when Sansa Stark—no...Sansa Bolton—emerged out of the carriage in a thick gown of moss-green, trimmed with Myrish lace as pale as foam and was immediately wrapped in furs by the maids. In the disarray of horses and bannermen and stable boys, Sansa was a regal tulip which stirred them more. The men secretly stole glances as she passed through, but Ramsay's eyes were cemented on her like she was the only existent being in Westeros. They never talked, nor exchanged glances. She was every inch a hardened young lady. No emotions dropped from her eyes and her lips were shut tight with every spin of her heels until she disappeared behind the arched entrance to the apartments. _A flower stripped off innocence,_ Myranda sighed. Ramsay had been enjoying her too much he must have forgotten himself for her.

From where Sansa entered came forth Small Jon, all in black capes, mail, and boiled leathers as dark as the expression on his fair face. He was almost a feet higher than all the heads that moved and Myranda almost wanted to close her eyes for fear it would be one she dreaded most. Small Jon inched towards Ramsay, almost surprisingly, and leaned forward to whisper to the Bolton's ear. Ramsay paused and afterwards pulled his head away as if Small Jon had the worst of news.

He wasn't wrong. Myranda watched the color slowly ebb from Ramsay's face. He stuck two fingers on his high collar and pulled to let in air as he cracked his neck and wet his tongue, his cold eyes getting deep and almost turquoise. His face had become a graveyard while sweat began to glitter on his brow in a sigh. Myranda wanted to reach out to him, to warn him of...no. Warning him wouldn't make anything less easier.

 _Oh Ramsay..._

* * *

Her fingers touched the gold flecks on the semi-smooth surface of the pendant with eyes unable to part from it. A ray of afternoon sunshine beamed like lasers from the window and she raised the stone to bask it in, eager to see the transformation from coal to gold and purple. And like a dream she again heard the breeze speak to her. Her chest was beginning to tighten. She missed her friend, his sad glassy stare, his betraying motives. _Was it true..._ gratefulness mapped on her wounded veins, _Have you set my brother free?_

The whispers around the castle walls aroused her and despite the scorn that choked her smile, she couldn't stop the glee that set her eyes wide and grateful. Arym was so true to her she felt like kissing him if only he were there. The thought of it made her cheeks warm as if she'd just had her first sip of sweet summer ale. _Silly girl._

And then she sighed...how could she be so selfish to put his—their—lives at the gaping gates of death. The Wall is too far for Rickon and she hoped Arym had thought of taking with him at least a courser to make the travel faster. There were many things she hoped: that they arrive safely, if not to the Wall then wherever Arym could take them; that Rickon was in one piece; that he wouldn't be too much of a heavy weight along the travel; that the Bolton search party be extinguished at the cold; that the gods would lead Jon to their aid. Indeed, many, many fantasies. Now she would spend the next of days looking through the horizon, waiting for a black bird, or dreading for the capture of the escapees...

The horizon looked farther now, and she realized the strange walls that now surrounded her.

She had moved chambers. From the gloomy one where she used to sleep as a child and a maiden, she chose one among the towers on the south of the castle. It was smaller than the usual chambers she slept in but less dingier for daylight could easily be trapped. She'd spend solitude while enjoying Ramsay's oath to hold himself off her. He had been treating her nicely since the travel from Deepwood Moat, sending her bacon and chopped eggs with peppers while he broke fast and dined on nuts. Suddenly her eyes widened and her mind ran with wild imagination and fear, counting days since she last bled...it was funny though, she laughed at herself, she'd been bleeding almost every night at the Dreadfort. It was near to impossible.

Her new chamber would testify the best comfort she could ever offer herself. She imagined sending in scrolls after scrolls and books where the great songs Old Nan used to sing to her were sealed. She'd resolved to keep her tiny world a paradise only she could penetrate. She could sup alone on lemon cakes, or black berries and autumn pears, or embroider throughout afternoons for all she cared. And no one will touch her in her little utopia. It wasn't too far, though, it could only take heartbeats to reach the halls. The winding stairs consoled her. Ramsay wasn't used to climbing steps given on drunken nights. She hoped she was right.

A maidservant poked her head in through the door, startling Sansa as she clutched the pendant within her palm and dropped her hand to her thighs. She gave an uncomic nod to the serving girl who brought in the freshest linens and vair. More wenches poured in the room, looking glum and bloodless, placing wax candles on bracket sconces sticking from the wall while another gently lay a brittle jar of potpourri beside the window. The scent of rosemary brought Sansa back to Queen Cersei's pavilion on warm mornings, marauding her with how a lady wife should treat her husband. The memoir irked and pushed her to the winding stairs, hearing the whispers and seeing the glances the servants rain on her as she flew past them and off the tower.

Snow began to film the muddied ground again and Sansa turned heels to walk along the bricked alleyway. She could save ruining the hem of her frock, at least. She slipped on a velvet robe dark as dried blood it almost turned black in the shadows, wide at the shoulders so her clavicle peeked under pale skin, and long sleeves fitted on her thinning arms. She thought herself stupid not to have pulled the ermine scarf she saw hanging by the door, around her shoulders; though her thick long curls would serve curtains around her neck.

Undecided where to go, she led to the kitchens to slip away a slice of almond pie or two, and pumpkin soup. It made her mouth water and her stomach churn, which quickly dried off when, at the oaken doors of the great hall, she sighted three of Ramsay's boys, and slowed her steps. The door was half agape and one concealed in after whispering to the others.

She must have thud her heel heavy enough when they turned heads to see her, and she halted. Sansa saw the distress warped on their eyes, but her face fell still as if apathetic to the world. She wanted to ask, but held back her tongue she might laugh at an ill news plaguing the Boltons. Unbowing and unstirred, she sucked in a breath secretly and resumed walking past them, although tempted to take a peek across the door.

She turned to the open hallway towards the kitchens, raising curtain after curtain, recalling once how Bran toggled beside her asking for a tart. The kitchen was cold and lifeless like manned by mute cooks. No one seemed to see her and if someone might have, the eyes need none to care for aside from the black pans that needed scrubbing. The place was aired with butter, and she could see the white quail meat piled in a basin.

A burly woman with bulbous nose appeared affront her, red coarse hair matted off the bun behind her head and she was wiping fat fingers like sausages on her bloodied and floured apron. When she spoke, Sansa smelled the breath of onions from yellowed teeth and her nose cringed.

"What do you want dear?"

Sansa pursed her lips. For an elephantine woman, the head cook was as gentle as a moth. She answered with a stare and deep within, her lungs felt punctured with intense curiosity on what was happening at the Great Hall.

Slowly she gathered her skirts and twisted her heels to scurry off, leaving the head cook frowning.

* * *

Corridors to the Great Hall have become dim. Once upon a time, the line of flambeaux used to flicker bright as sunshine and chased shadows off the bricked tiers. Now it was as if the crypts have rebuilt itself in labyrinths and extended here. Sansa shivered, looking side to side like there were claws waiting to snap her spine in half. Near the edge she heard the voices echoing from the arched side entrance, and they weren't meek...

Sansa receded her footsteps to allow the voices more audibility. By then she could recognize it. A deep voice callused by ire, graceless and livid. Roose Bolton.

She rested a palm on the wall and a sudden chill stabbed her and pulled her away from appearing on the scene. Hiding was pointless, she sighed, even behind the wall she could perceive the chasm and fury that hung on every crevice. Her brows began to crease as the intense perfume of outrage filled her pores.

Sansa counted two—three men within, perhaps more, but would not exceed a dozen. She could envision Roose Bolton walking to and fro, talking and ranting, arms waving. Her shoulders leapt at the bash of chalice against the floor and she imagined the wine that spewed like hurricane in all directions. Amidst her thumping heartbeats she risked inches towards the entrance to weave more sense of the scene.

"I gave you this chance, you witless fool!"

Sansa wet her lips with an almost drying tongue.

"I gave you this chance and you made a laughing stock of me! Now the NORTH IS LAUGHING AT ME!"

Another blast of gloved fist crashed on the table and reverberated on every brick and every fold of banners that hung from the mezzanines.

Finally the voice she anticipated to hear filled in, calm but accented with doubt. "I'll take care of it—" "HOW?!"

Heavy footsteps from leathered boots. "HOW?!"

Chainmail rattling. Gloved fist on a collar. Shaking.

"ANSWER ME, BASTARD!"

"I'll figu—"

"YOU. DO NOT. KNOW. HOW!"

A rumble. Fist smashed on jaw once. Sansa swallowed. Boots swept on the flooring but halted.

"ALL I DID FOR YOU!" Knee on groin. A cry of pain. "TO YOU!"

Heavy breathings. One off of delirium. Another off suffering, sprawling on the floor: helpless like a pruned sheep, and coughing. Sansa leaned her back on the icy bricks that concealed her. She closed her eyes. All the ruckus swept her off to the court of King's Landing with her gown stripped half from shoulder to navel, a sword's hilt jolted on her belly, the side of metal whipped against her back, Joffrey's maniacal laughter… _beat her! Beat her!_

She could now hear the same walking to and fro, but in an increased pace, and a more dangerous inclination.

"I thought I've made a man off you...!" seethed Roose, "I've made a man off you when you cut the meat off the whore that RETCHED your miserable life!"

 _What…?_ Sansa's eyes flew open. Westeros has crashed on her and her tight throat began to hallow. Indecipherable as it seemed, she felt that curtains to answers of a mystery had began opening before her. And she didn't want to see the horrific spectacle. Needless to do, her fingertips shook feebly and a cold air swept under her skirts and seemed to seep to her toes. All she could see before her were blood and ash.

 _No…_

"S-stop…"

Sansa bit her lower lip as if she had been the one who voiced the plea. _Oh gods…it couldn't be…_

Roose Bolton went on. "You ARE as useless as _her_. Crying for _her_ like the dog you are now. Hounds have better use than you!"

"Stop…"

 _Oh Ramsay…_ She suppressed a stressed sigh, a magnificent whirl of anger and pity scoured her innards.

"I should've let you watch the hounds rip off her flesh and throw her bones at your bastard head!"

"Pleeease… stop pleeease…"

By now a tear trailed uncontrollably from Sansa's eye to chin without her commanding will to sorrow. She has never heard of this Ramsay, never heard of him plead as if the air had turned to venom and began to fill his lungs and spread across his body. And she swore it wasn't him, the shaky wails and sniffing wasn't her monster of a husband. This was a man whose ghosts of childhood had caught up to him and torching him in a boiling cauldron of nightmares as their laughter rung in deep overlapping echoes…

"It would have awakened that watery brain if there were any…it would have served better sport than you with the knife and stupidly crying for a useless whore…" Roose Bolton went on without pauses. She could imagine him with veins traced on his temples and spittling as he spoke insanely.

"Stop…stop…stop…" Ramsay's gasps cut through.

And then she heard it. The sob that came from the devil himself being punished, crippled with agony and solid with pain that undermined a thousand spearthrusts to the heart. She could see him behind closed eyes gasping for air and clawing out a memory that clung to his shadows. _I flayed a woman once..._ she recalled her husband's threatening voice behind her as he swept the cold bathing rag on her shoulder.

Gods be damned. That woman was his mother. Ramsay Bolton was forced to flay his mother.

* * *

 **A/N:** I know...I know and I'm sorry. :( Was supposed to make it longer but I'm afraid my time won't quite agree. It's like progressing one sentence in a week. I hope you'd still leave me reviews despite the suckish length of time updating.

Valar Morghulis. xx


	23. 23 ROOSE-SANSA

_Dreams fight with machines_

 _Inside my head like adversary_

 _Come wrestle me free_

 _Free from the war_

 _My heart fits like a key into the lock of the war_

 _I turn it over I turn it over_

 _but I can't escape._

 _~Hurts like helll, Fleurie_

* * *

How has it ever come to this?

He was supposed to love the boy. He may not have had any parcel of affection for the woman who conceived him but he was supposed to love the boy. Even when, for generations, his roots had been spontaneity of hateful, cruel forefathers, he found in his heart a need for this bastard he could somewhat someday be exultant of.

But it all vanished like burst suds when he lost his firstborn.

He lost Domeric; his world crashed and could not fathom whom to pin the blame. He thought the bastard an ill omen in his house. He thought the boy scrawny, and quiet like death, and held a sad stare. Roose convinced himself that locking up Ramsay's mother must have offended the old gods and claimed Domeric's life for it to lift the bastard's title. He was convinced out of own Placebo effect, and yet his unforgiving spirit manifested when he forced the bastard the flaying knife and skinned his bag of bones of a mum...and made up the story that Ramsay poisoned his legitimate child.

He was sure as seven hells confused whether he ever cared for Ramsay or not. He needed the boy, yes, but he detested him as much as he needed him. And for long all he ever needed was an heir but by chance he was stuck with the regret of having to break Ramsay in redemption of firstborn's death. If he might have just been as fair and loving to the bastard...he...

There was no point walking down that lane, was there...? Ramsay was as thwarted as a frozen ripple in a lake. His bones and flesh have healed and yet there was made a monster out of an undernourished child.

Indeed. Again the twist of mood has taken toll on Roose's mind upon the materialization of Domeric's purpled face, and the shame now brought upon him at the failure of Ramsay. Mercy faded away like snow under first summer light, and Roose felt the heat burn his eyes as he jolted another swing of boot against his bastard's stomach.

The sound of crushed ribs sprung through air, followed by a bellow, and a choking cough.

"Now you say _please!_ Is it?" Roose Bolton spat, "Have you heard it from Domeric the day you poisoned him!?"

Again Ramsay let out a desperate wail, crunched on the floor, one hand on his belly. He coughed and sniffed, and weakly lifted himself so almost doing obeisance. His knees and right elbow, which feebly carried his weight, trembled against the carpeted floor. Roose glimpsed the red that streaked from Ramsay's mouth. He walked to and fro, never parting sight from the tremors on the bastard's shoulders.

"I didn..." Ramsay rasped before coughing. His breaths almost sounded dying and he couldn't lift his head. "I didn't kill..."

"...kill who...?" Roose snapped.

"Do...- " heavy inhales cut through Ramsay's throat, "Domer..."

Roose's mind flared on a familiar alibi and raised a knee to aim heel on Ramsay's shoulder. "Oh for fuck's sake, bastard! Spit it ou—"

"LORD BOLTON!"

Multiple footsteps tapped in interruption and Roose was sloth to recognize the angry cut came from Sansa Stark. She walked in speed with eyes that could summon a hurricane and for a split second he almost saw Catelyn in her stead. Even in rage, she was beautiful, and it pulled him off his own fury. A couple of kitchen wenches came after her with obvious fret, their eyes not leaving the floor out of shame to have conspired annoyance.

"That is enough," Sansa halted, leaving Roose's face drained off colors. "It was I that suggested the need to not push through the execution. If there need be a flogging of me too, let it be on the morrow as enough ruckus has dispersed needlessly today."

And with that she signalled the maids to run to Ramsay and lift him off his feet. The few soldiers present were reluctant enough to have them stare at each other unable to move. Ramsay grunted as he was forced from his lying place but welcomed the help. Both his arms draped across either wench and Roose managed to watch the pause that occurred as Sansa and Ramsay faced to face before the young wife stiffly instructed, "Take him to my chamber. Quick."

The wenches were red as beets, having to move step by step whilst Ramsay limped past Sansa. She followed their lead and Roose Bolton was unsure of how he'd have to treat matters with Sansa Stark too. If it were her that convinced Ramsay to forgo Lord Glover's beheading, she's gone mad. Perhaps she was stupid after all, and he wanted not to believe it. Contemplating off, he was mesmerized as she started to exit simply as if the scene was a mere spectacle of light bearings for her.

"Lady Sansa, this is an insult," Roose seethed, "You could see I was disciplining my son."

At this he marked the pause that pulled Sansa's heels on the bricked ground and her skirts in a bounced twist. She turned her head to meet her eyes with his, and he absorbed the strange bolt that radiated from them. They were outrageously blue...and wintry.

"No, Lord Bolton," she spoke in volumes that almost sent a chill under his skin. "You're humiliating my husband."

Roose tightened his lips. His ears caught an unfamiliar ringing of shame coming from inside him. Has he underestimated the effect that Ramsay have had on her...? Was it possible she could have, at the least, dug a spring of affection for the bastard no noble _sane_ woman would tie down with? It was...impossible. To hear _husband_ addressed in defence to a mad dog.

"How could you, Lord Bolton?"

Roose swallowed. He could not remember seeing the details of how Sansa turned to face him fully. Her face was stiff and all traces of softness dried out of her.

"How could you...?" she narrowed her eyes in despair and incense, "...Blame him for being a bastard as if it were his choice...?"

Bolton's lungs turned to stone. He looked to the side to catch Small Jon's quick evasion of eye contact. And for the first time shame rained on him like arrows that shielded the sun, which all made sense now that Sansa left the room.

* * *

Sansa held the bricked walls at once she left the scene behind her. She shook her head to rid of the sudden dizziness out of pure anxiety. She couldn't deny that courage demanded voluminous adrenaline which dried out her throat and made her wonder how she has ever done that. Allowing a few blinks and a deep breath, she moved to catch up with the wenches who were quite quick to drag Ramsay from his father's scorn. Ramsay's boys kept eyes on her and never flinched a muscle, which she was quite thankful. And yes, she was thankful by luck those kitchen wenches came passing by her while she dropped eaves and wept dutifully for her husband's shame. But then she saw in a distance the same wenches returning to the kitchens and was amazed by how quick they were to carry her husband towards the stairs. Unless they had some help, which was likely.

She memorized lanes to her tower, flowing through people like a deep stream, towards the entrance to the winding stairs to the chamber, and suddenly halted.

Up ahead Myranda was clutching onto Ramsay like a protective vulture, a sight which temporarily handicapped Sansa's rush. She heard the kennel girl whispering as both of them took a slow step up. Although the whispers were undecipherable, a tiny tendril of discomfort lodged through her heart.

"Thank you, Myranda,"

The kennel girl twisted her head and meantime spewed shock. Sansa noticed the widened eyes that sparkled shame as if she were a mistress caught...although it wouldn't be distant by the fact they had been...Sansa relieved the thought.

"Let me take it from here," Sansa stretched her neck towards the door that was near to appearing above them and called loud enough to stir the bed maids on her room, "Tara! Wendyl! Down here now!"

It took bleak seconds before the two shivering young girls descended and Sansa gave them the leave to continue carrying the half-conscious Ramsay through the chamber door.

Sansa stared at the frustration that pooled around Myranda's emerald eyes, and waited until the kennel girl wilt in shame when they were the only ones left in the staircase. Silence dawned awhile and it hadn't crossed Sansa's mind to open lips first. Myranda took this message and smiled the familiar dog's grin which made Sansa only want to frustrate her further.

"I see you've..." Myranda swallowed, "moved beds..."

Sansa could only look on, "I did."

Myranda pressed her lips to suppress another fake smile, and sensing the agitation of her presence, she finally curtsied. "It is a nice place, this chamber. Well-hidden."

Sansa's eyes narrowed. Matter-of-fact she wasn't sure of the intent of the words. _Well-hidden._ Could it be that Ramsay and her...she cursed silently and begrudgingly smiled. Myranda emanated a perfume of jealousy which Sansa clearly smelt clinging around a whiff of the kennel girl, especially when she passed across her to make leave.

"Myranda," the she-wolf spoke. She heard Myranda's footsteps halt and turned her neck so half-her face could see the other. She opened her lips to continue, "That would be the last I'd ever see you with Ramsay again."

She heard the sharp inhale that came from the kennel wench, and Sansa was determined to take it as a _yes_ to her command. But she needed to make sure Myranda was listening by knife's edge. "Do you understand?"

Myranda nodded without ever meeting the eye, before moving out. "Yes, milady."

Sansa felt a heavy weight lift off her chest as she breathed in and stepped up towards the agape door, brooding secretly of what ever might have pushed those words out of her mouth. _Now where did that come from...?_

She pushed the door open, only to find Ramsay perched on the edge of her bed, and the bed maids staring at her silently screaming to be released. She waved them off, and sensed how happily they obliged scurrying away but she let one of them return with a bath rag, and a basin of tepid fresh water.

The sound of flame cracked crisply on the hearth; the smell of potpourri stalled from the window. Sansa found herself suddenly ashamed to have carried Ramsay all the way here without ever speaking a word to him. The bastard is in shock, she reckoned, seeing him sulking as if his soul had floated away like Helium. She walked towards the front of him, still bland on the familiar silence that always maimed her when he was around. And her heart poured out for him despite the disgust that once callused her mind.

A firm hand jutted out of her and stiffly caught Ramsay's loose jaw, and an odd power surged through her at the sight of his fallen face. It was in that she read his bright blue eyes like an open book which undressed the real Ramsay Bolton: the scared, rejected boy who will never be good enough for his father. Her tormenter and raper was now the timid child in her hand, and she was roused with feelings of glee. She could slap him at that minute. She could laugh at him for all she cared, or beat him up unrelentlessly with the confidence of him not fighting back. She could put out his eyes and he would only scream and crumple at her feet as blood and pus would stain the rim of her dress. She could find redemption from those wild nights he gave her, from the shreds he made of her dresses and a much deeper shred between her sore legs, from the stinging on her tender, purple-blotched breasts. She could fucking kill him. Now.

But Sansa was convinced her muscles were drained even when her pupils dilated into small pools of excitement. She could not make a move at his stature; she could not take advantage of his weakness. Instead there was the unsolicited mercy she cursed. Ramsay was a puzzle whose only missing piece was affection. Earnest, warm, blood red rose affection.

Ramsay Bolton...she tagged him in her mind as her hardened, indifferent eyes punctured through: Ramsay Bolton, the boy who was forced to kill his mother.

"Stop it." She heard herself command. Ramsay looked on up at her as if she casted hypnosis. "You are every inch a Bolton. Stop snivelling." Her grip on his jaw tightened but Ramsay did not flinch. And how she loved his look, this must have been what he felt when she looked at him pleadingly as well.

"What you with Lord Glover was not, in any way, stupid." she continued, suffering from questions of why her mind had raced opposite her lips, "You did what was right, it is time your father ought to know. A Bolton can be merciful."

The words were bitter on her tongue. It was like drinking bile from a chamber pot. She saw the bobbing up and down of his Adam's Apple. And Gods she swore she felt moist between the legs when his eyes presented confusion and his lips gaped below her. She loved to hurt him, yes, but she wanted to give him that missing piece too. And oh it would hurt her to the core but such hurt would heal her as well.

The door behind them creaked open and the bed maid Wendyl stood shivering. Sansa turned to her, had the basin rested on the table, and relieved her again. She rolled her sleeves and in a while her thoughts spirited away to the night her mind had been playing sport on her and considered herself insane, and Ramsay had been gentle to her as he wiped her bloodied feet. It was hers to return the favour...awkwardly.

Sansa twisted excess water from the damp rag and walked back to Ramsay. This time he didn't look at her, and she took it for penitence that his wounds were finally exposed to her. Sansa swallowed and gripped on to the battling emotions in her head. She could avenge herself and it seemed he wouldn't care dying this time, but this was the same man—monster—who made love to her intensely she wallowed in an imaginary home. She exhaled and bent slightly to wipe the hardening blood on the edge of his mouth and he didn't flinch until it was clean. But when she went for his soiled brow, her hand paused at his sullen voice.

"I didn't kill Domeric..." Ramsay spoke and Sansa wet her lips as she continued to wipe of the dirt on his temple.

"He died of an illness, Ramsay, don't be sore. 'Twas the news that arrived here...when..." She stopped at the familiar melancholia that stabbed through her at the memory of when everything was well here at home, a time when Father received the dreadful news of the Bolton heir deceased.

Ramsay turned his head away, prompting Sansa to stop and straighten her gait. There was so much sadness in him she had never seen before, and she wanted to share him hers too, as they could hurt together.

"He killed himself,"

She remained frozen. Even the damp rag on her hand seemed to have been plunged on a frozen sea, but still managed to squeak, "...What?"

"He didn't welcome the life Father wanted for him, he..." Ramsay stared at the nothingness before him, "...wanted an idyllic living...books, and horses...he would have wanted to be a Maester, he oft laughed at saying."

"They've had troubles too, settling it...but Father was too stiff and wouldn't listen..." he swallowed, "...and one night he tucked a book under my pillow before I could even wake up...and the morrow he was ill. No one was allowed to see him except Father and the Maesters. It was a matter of hours before he died."

"What was on the book...?" Sansa queried, finding herself curious as if it were Old Nan telling her the story of Jonquil and Florian. She perched herself on his left and kept staring despite him not reciprocating the sight.

"His note to father, through me,"

"You should have shown it,"

"I did," he confessed with a voice becoming dubbed with bitterness, "...but turned out it was evidence against me, that I wrote it. No one discovered what he ate, nor drank...all I knew back then was that I had a brother, then I became the murderer of that coward of brother...and a wretch of a mother."

Sansa swore she heard her heart burst, and in the midst of the gauche conversation she took him by the neck and gently laid his head on her shoulder before hearing him sniffle.


	24. 24 ROOSE

_Go ahead and cry little boy_

 _You know that your daddy did too_

 _You know what your mama went through_

 _You gotta let it out soon_

 _Just let it out_

 _~t.n._

* * *

Callused palms pushed against the door, and Roose Bolton entered a different world.

There they lay: Sansa Stark perched silently on the pillows piled high on a side of the bed, face pinked at the cheeks, eyes sweetly closed, lips limned in red. She stirred softly in a lavender night dress, her hair a perfect wave of sunset against the swirl of black-grey vair and wolf pelt.

And Roose has seen the most peculiar image in the world, something he has never set on his long and weary years, and something he will never see again in a thousand lifetimes.

On the arms of Sansa lay a head of ebony. Ramsay, his psychopath of a son, the bastard lunatic missing half a brain, was a bear cub curled on her lap. His face basked in the warmth of his wife's soft stomach, arms enclosed around her waist, breathing hushed and shoulders calmly rising and falling.

Alone, Sansa was typically who she is. The once-budding rose has fully bloomed. She was not a queen, not a wardeness, not a lady at that moment. She was simply a cloud in an air of sweet dreams devoid of everything ashen in this cruel land. She was a peach-colored mattress showered in petals, with perfume that devours nightmares at the slightest whiff. And beauty will always be a badge that clings like the blue pools in her eyes.

Alone, Ramsay never resembled the stupid whoreson he scarred over and over again. He clung to his wife like a boy to a mother, selfishly fencing her, absorbing her radiance and heat solely for himself. Her fingers weaved between his mats of raven hair.

Together, they looked too wrong. A dove and a raven tangled in the sheets is the most eccentric splendour one could ever discover. They were oil and water, and yet there they are, bodies touching, feet bare, and unspeakably tranquil like the sea after a squall. It looked like their souls were making love, the pleasure ringing out on their placid breathing and sleep has become their gates from the eyes of the world. Together they were husband and wife, they looked begrudgingly perfect it made Roose want to give everything to be in that state.

He suppressed a breath when Sansa's hand slowly stroke across Ramsay's tangles of hair, and before she opened her eyes at the perception of someone staring at her intimacy with the man in her arms, Roose crept out of the room silent as the night that engulfed the realm.

* * *

 **A/N:** I know it wasn't much but I do hope to at least update despite the tangles of paperwork needed to finish. Thank you for the reviews. I'm sorry for the delays...as usual. Off to the other POVs on the next installments.


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